


Hummingbird

by IanMuyrray



Category: Outlander & Related Fandoms, Outlander Series - Diana Gabaldon
Genre: Accidental Bonding, Accidental Relationship, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Alternate Universe - Tattoo Parlor, Alternate Universe - Tattoos, And come, Angst and Feels, Angst with a Happy Ending, Custody Battle, Denial of Feelings, Eventual Smut, F/M, Family Dynamics, Flashbacks, Friends With Benefits, Good Things Come, Infant Death, Just Sex Until It's Not, Love Triangles, Mental Health Issues, Miscarriage, Post-Divorce, Pregnancy, Smut, Sorry it always takes me several chapters to do proper tags and summaries, Strangers to Lovers, and come :), implied suicidal thoughts, pregnancy loss, single dad, when you least expect it
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-01-02
Updated: 2019-06-23
Packaged: 2019-10-02 17:13:01
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 10
Words: 23,992
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17268122
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/IanMuyrray/pseuds/IanMuyrray
Summary: It's been 5 years since Ian and Emily divorced, and Ian has been raising Digger on his own. The two of them have become a duo, with Rollo as a constant companion, until Emily calls and he sends her to voicemail:“Hi Ian, it’s Emily.” She sounded nervous, speaking too quickly. “I guess you’ll know that. I’m calling because I wanted to be the one to tell you -- I’m filing for physical custody of Digger. I miss him, and I think it's… time. I hope you understand and don’t fight me on it. A child needs his mother. And I have my husband Jeremy here, who can help me with Digger -- you might know him by Sun Elk, remember? Well, we’ve been talking and... he really encouraged me to do it. And I want him. I’ve been thinking about it for a long time. I think it would be good for Digger, too. I miss him. Okay, Ian. Please don’t be too mad. I’ll send the papers along soon. I wish you would have answered so we could’ve talked about it. I miss you, too, you know. Okay. Bye.”Nearly the same day, an attractive woman named Rachel Hunter waltzes into his life, commissioning him to tattoo her. They hit it off, and Rachel offers him a fun, no-strings-attached distraction. He accepts her offer.





	1. Prologue

_**North Carolina, a few years ago**_

It was the day Emily moved out.

It was night, their home brightly lit as if every lamp in the house was on. He had come home from purchasing eggs, bread, some vanilla. They were going to have breakfast for dinner. They always did, on Sundays.

He walked into the kitchen, set the plastic bag on the counter. He hated plastic bags, but he’d forgotten their reusable totes and had to make do. His hands still smelled of the disinfectant wipes he’d used on the sink earlier that day. They had cleaned the house together. They always did, on Sundays.

Quickly, she stood from her seat at the table, her oversize sweater making her seem smaller than she was. Something was wrong.

“Emily?” he asked, taking a step towards her.

Her dark eyes glittered, and she clasped her hands so tightly together her knuckles turned white. In his mind’s eye, he saw the packed suitcase by the front door he’d walked by on his way in. He fumbled for the cord that connected the two of them – when was the last time he had reached for it? – but it took too long to find.

“Um,” she began, and with the sound, a tear rolled over her cheek. Hastily, she wiped it away, sniffling.

Their one-year-old son, Digger, napped in his blue-walled nursery upstairs, surrounded by prints of rabbits and storybook trees. Rollo, who often slept beside the crib, popped a yellow eye open and lifted his head toward the crack of light from the hallway.

The click of Rollo’s nails on the floor immediately followed the latch of the front door.

And she was gone.


	2. Part 1

Something landed on top of the covers like a bowling ball dropped on the mattress.

 

“ _A bhalaich_ ,” Ian groaned, pressing his face deeper into his pillow. He reached out an arm to steady his bouncing child.

 

“Get up, Da,” said Digger, rolling until he looked at Ian upside down, brown eyes big and earnest.

 

“What time is it?”

 

“Seven.”

 

“Are ye sure?”

 

Digger’s cheeks dimpled with a mischievous grin, his teeth small and white. “Yes.”

 

“Mmph.” Ian pushed himself up to look at the digital clock on the bed stand. Digger put two small hands on his father’s head and laughed, trying to prevent him from looking at the time.

 

“It’s six twenty-two,” Ian chided, wrestling his overeager son into his arms. “Do ye remember our deal?” Six years old, and Digger’s hair smelled like children’s soap from his bedtime bath. It was dark in color, like his mother’s, and soft against Ian’s cheek.

 

“Yes.”

 

“Which is?”

 

“Don’t wake Da until seven,” the boy replied.

 

“Uh huh. And?”

 

“Keep the TV down.” The enthusiastic sounds of a children’s show thrummed through the thin wall.

 

Ian released the boy from his arms  and Digger immediately sprung to his knees, as if shot from a slingshot.

 

“Are you up now, Da?”

 

Ian stretched. “I’m up, I’m up. Go get dressed for school. I’ll get yer breakfast.”

 

As Digger bounded away, his quick and heavy steps making soft  _thud-thud-thuds_ on the carpet, Rollo appeared in the open doorway. He bowed his front legs into an early morning stretch while Ian narrowed his eyes at the dog.

 

“What good are you?” he teased. Rollo, bored with babysitting, gave a high-pitched yawn, then volleyed a yellow-eyed look back at Ian.

 

* * *

 

“Da?”

 

Ian met Digger’s eyes with a quick glance in the rearview mirror. He was propped up in his car seat, buckled in securely, his picture encyclopedia on his lap. They had just pulled up to the curb of the school, Ian’s blue Jeep one in a long line of cars. Parents and children waited for one of the school safety officers -- a fifth grader in a neon yellow safety vest -- to signal when it was their turn for drop-off. Just a couple cars were ahead in line.

 

“Digger?”

 

“Geckos have no eyelids,” he announced.

 

Ian released the brake, rolling forward. “Did ye read that?” He knew his son’s favorite part of the oversized book was the section on reptiles, the colorful glossy pages creased, a corner ripped. 

 

“Yeah, I did.”

 

“Could ye read something else to me?” They were practicing his reading skills each night before bed, or trying to. Ian worked hard to make time, but sometimes the clock wasn’t on his side, so he was happy to take advantage of Digger’s willingness to read aloud this morning. They’d missed a bedtime story last night due to Ian working late, and Digger fell dead asleep on the car ride home after being picked up from Auntie Claire and Uncle Jamie’s.

 

“Um.” Digger scanned the page. “Geckos have u...u..uni…” He paused, frowning in concentration.

 

“Can ye spell it?”

 

The little boy didn’t hesitate. He knew his letters. “U-N-I-Q-U-E.”

 

Ian smiled at Digger in the mirror. They’d read this page several times over, and he was surprised Digger didn’t have it memorized _._  “Unique.”  _Geckos have unique toes which allow them to be good climbers._

 

The kid nodded and repeated his father, beginning the sentence over again. Ian’s concentration was interrupted by a wave from a safety officer; it was Digger’s turn to get out of the car. The side door opened, and Digger unbuckled himself, beginning to crawl out.

 

“Have a good day,” Ian smiled. Usually, he would reach to give Digger a hug and kiss, to check that he had everything he needed for the school day, but his phone was ringing and he turned to look at the caller ID.

 

Ian’s heart thundered in his chest.

 

His finger hovered over the accept button. It might be nice, to talk to Emily.

 

The car door slammed shut, snapping Ian back, and he watched the boy’s dark head bob and weave through groups of other children before disappearing into the shadows of the school, his green dinosaur backpack snug on his shoulders.

 

Ian clenched his jaw, sent Emily to voicemail, and pulled out of the school parking lot.

 

* * *

 

Arriving early to the shop, Ian climbed out of his Jeep and slipped his phone into his pocket. Noise from the busy highway rumbled behind him and the sky was clear, the sun bright white in all the blue. An unimpressive sign read “TATTOO” above the glass door of the small building.

 

The asphalt of the lot was old and cracked; it was winter, however, and the weeds that had poked through a few months ago were brown and shriveled. A single red sedan was parked across the way. Brianna was here already-- of course she was. He stalked towards the entrance, hands in his jacket pockets.

 

“Hey,” he called, the door beeping as he opened it. The lobby of the shop was filled with creased leather furniture, and the wood floors creaked under his feet as he passed through. The walls were adorned with oversized posters of traditional tattoo art. The check-in desk had a large glass case displaying jewelry for body piercings. Atop it was their antique cash register, paper calendar, and pens. Nearby was a box of file-folders, where proofs for commissioned tattoos sat. Ian had several in there, waiting to be approved by the client. Brianna had several more.

 

“Hi,” she called back from down the hallway. He followed her voice and found her bent over her drafter’s table. Her sleeves were pushed past her elbows, red hair wild, her fingers smudged with ink from her pen. Each tattoo artist’s room was sharp and modern, minimalist in design with red and black and white-- a stark contrast to the relaxed nature of the lobby. Clean and sterile, like a doctor’s office, arranged with an artist’s touch of madness. On one side of the room was her array of tattoo guns, colored inks, and a padded table for clients to lay on.

 

“Rosemary doesn’t like my original design,” she said, answering his unspoken question, “And she’s coming in today, so I have to be sure it’s ready. Too ‘cartoonish,’ she said, even though she described what she wanted to me as ‘cartoon flowers.’”

 

Ian grimaced, knowing how picky some people could be. “I hate that. Be sure to charge her extra if she starts to take advantage of you.”

 

Brianna huffed. “Not likely. She’s spending a fortune already and we agreed on a fixed price. Why are you here so early?”

 

Ian shrugged. “I was going to start drafting that backpiece. Ye know, that big dragon Ronald wants? He’s convinced he’ll be the only one with something like that but I think everyone with a back tattoo has this green beast. I’m going to let my pen fly and see what happens, to try and make it unique to him.” In his mind, he heard Digger’s voice:  _u-n-i-q-u-e._

 

“Sounds like a task. Good luck.”

 

His room had a similar layout to Brianna’s, including a desk for drawing, metal storage for his tattooing tools, and padded table, though it was inked with his own personality. On the walls hung several framed drawings he’d done, the ones he was the proudest of. They were colorful and detailed, depicting mostly animals and floral design. He shut the door, wanting privacy from Brianna, from any other artist who might come in early, and sat at the desk.

 

He pulled his phone out of his pocket, making to set it down, but his eye caught the notifications as it lit up.

 

Emily had called. And left a voice message.

 

She contacted him very rarely and most of their conversations happened over text message.

 

_Can I see Digger this weekend?_

 

_Yes. What time would you like to pick him up?_

 

_7 on Friday._

 

_He’ll be ready._

 

Things were distant between Ian and his ex-wife, though they tried to keep it more casual when it came to Digger. They had a formal custody arrangement -- Ian with sole physical and legal custody-- Emily with limited visitation rights on paper. But Ian let her see him whenever she’d wanted. Not that she took advantage of that as often as he might like.

 

He wanted his son to have a relationship -- a good, strong one -- with his mother. She’d relinquished custody of the boy in the early stages of the divorce, making it clear to Ian and the court that she thought it best that Digger stay with his dad. Ian kept the house, the kid, the dog…. Emily had only wanted out. Remembering how she’d given up on them cut him like a knife, even as logic told him it was for the best.

 

He couldn’t remember the last time he’d genuinely heard her voice, heard it outside the soft and awkward “hellos” and “thank yous,” whenever they exchanged their child. It was hard, to speak to each other as strangers, after everything they’d gone through during their short marriage.

 

His heart clenched, and he set his phone aside, deciding to deal with it later. He pulled out his notes, sample images from his client, and a large sheet of paper. For now, he’d lose himself in his artwork.

 

* * *

 

“Ian?” came a voice through his door with a soft knock. “There’s a phone call for you on the shop phone.” It was Jessa, the receptionist. They were open for the day, and Ian had a client sprawled across the table, tattoo machine vibrating jubilantly between his fingers in black latex gloves.

 

“Come in,” Ian called, not looking up from his work. It was a scrollwork tattoo, down the ribcage of a thin man.

 

Jessa opened the door and leaned against the black door frame. She was a small, young girl with dark eye makeup, her arms already littered with tattoos. “It’s Digs’ school.”

 

“What? What do they want?”

 

“They won’t say, they just want to talk to you.”

 

Ian paused, his foot lifting from the pedal that powered his machine. The buzzing stopped, and the client shifted.

 

“I still have about an hour to go with this appointment. Have them talk to Brianna if she’s not busy, she’s on Digger’s contact list.”

 

Jessa disappeared, shutting the door gently behind her, only to be reopened by Brianna a few moments later. His cousin’s red hair was up in a bun now, her turtleneck making her appear conservative and severe. Her eyes slid to the client and Ian shrugged, looking at her over his paper mask.

 

“What is it?”

 

“Digger is sick. He threw up his lunch.”

 

“He did? He was fine this morning. Is he okay?”

 

“He vomited down the middle of the hallway.  _On_ some kids. A projectile missile, I guess.”

 

Ian laughed. “Atta boy.”

 

“But, that said, the nurse wants to send him home.”

 

Ian swore. He was nowhere near done with this appointment, and he had a packed schedule this evening. “He can’t wait until Claire picks him up at three?”

 

“No.”

 

“Could ye go get ‘im? Or Roger Mac? Claire could pick him up here.”

 

Brianna glanced at the clock above Ian’s drawing table and made a sympathetic noise. “I have an appointment coming in, and if Roger went he wouldn’t be able to get uptown in time to get the kids.”

 

Ian shook his head and returned to his work. “Figures.” He was annoyed, but not at her. Brianna had the extra person who could pick the kids up from school when they’re sick. Ian, however, was alone.

 

He felt Brianna watching him for a moment, then she spoke. “I’ll call Mama. She’ll just grab him earlier than usual. Or Da can get him, I’m sure.”

 

Ian blew out a breath. “I try not to bother them too much. They do too much already.”

 

Brianna shrugged. “They love that they can help,” she said with a certainty that seemed to follow her everywhere. “They were already planning on picking him up today anyway, right? Let me give them a call.”

 

The tattoo machine buzzed in his hands, and he followed the blue ink proof on the skin. He tried to not think about how terrible Digger must be feeling right now, if he was embarrassed or upset, how fatigued and sick he must be. How Ian was stuck at work. “Thanks, Bree. Ye should ken I try not to bother you too much, too.”

 

She snorted and wandered off, and despite her air, Ian was left with a sense that she didn’t mind, either.

 

* * *

 

That night, Ian sat on the couch, his sleeping son’s head in his lap, Rollo curled up on the cushion at Digger’s feet. The room was dark with nothing but the TV on, and the boy was swaddled in a white blanket. On the coffee table sat Pedialyte and a bottle of medicine. On the floor was a small wastebasket with a plastic bag inserted, at the ready in case Digger got sick again.

 

Ian had rescheduled his evening appointments, freeing himself to be home with Digger. His hand rested on the boy’s shoulder, big against the small frame of the child. Ian gave a reassuring, absent squeeze, debating when he should lift the kid and tuck him into bed.

 

He didn’t want to move, though. Quiet, cuddly moments were few and far between compared to Digger’s toddler days, when his favorite place to fall asleep was his father’s arms.

 

He’d assumed parenting would get easier as Digger aged -- leaving behind diaper changes and the language of constant crying or whining and the lifting of the financial burden of even part-time daycare had been a godsend -- but it was only getting more difficult, more complicated. He was exhausted.

 

A text chimed on his phone, and he leaned forward carefully to pick it up. Auntie Claire.

 

_How is he doing?_

 

Ian looked to his son’s soft, round face before replying.

 

_Better. Sleeping._

 

The lad had come down with the flu, and Ian was doing his best to keep the kid hydrated and rested. He hadn’t vomited since Ian had picked him up from Jamie and Claire’s, but that was likely because his little stomach was empty. And being so willing to sleep alerted Ian that something was wrong right away. The boy often fought to stay up past his bedtime.

 

_Watch for a fever. Tell me if he gets one, and keep him home from school tomorrow. I’ll be by around 9 to watch him._

 

_Ok_

 

_Update me if anything changes._

 

Ian smiled.  _Ok_

 

He sat a while like that, with Digger on his lap, absent attention on his TV. When it got impossibly late and Digger needed to be put to bed, Ian lifted the solid, heavy body of his son into his arms and laid him across his covers. He silently placed the empty basket next to the bed and pressed a kiss to his son’s forehead. Rollo stayed by the bed’s side, and Ian knew the dog would keep watch.

 

In the kitchen, Ian cracked open a beer and considered his phone. He’d left Emily’s voicemail alone all day. He should listen to it, but his limbs felt heavy with dread even at the thought. Talking to her still hurt, touching a far off place in his heart that swelled and throbbed when provoked.

 

Frowning, he pressed play and held the phone to his ear.

 

“Hi Ian, it’s Emily.” She sounded nervous, speaking too quickly. “I guess you’ll know that. I’m calling because I wanted to be the one to tell you -- I’m filing for physical custody of Digger. I miss him, and I think it's… time. I hope you understand and don’t fight me on it. A child needs his mother. And I have my husband Jeremy here, who can help me with Digger -- you might know him by Sun Elk, remember? Well, we’ve been talking and... he really encouraged me to do it. And I want him. I’ve been thinking about it for a long time. I think it would be good for Digger, too. I miss him. Okay, Ian. Please don’t be too mad. I’ll send the papers along soon. I wish you would have answered so we could’ve talked about it. I miss you, too, you know. Okay. Bye.”

 

 


	3. Part 2

**North Carolina, a few years ago**

 

Sunrise fell soft across the mountain. Pink and orange light reflected off the windows of the family cabin where Ian and Emily had settled for the weekend. A delicate layer of snow crunched under their hiking boots as they wandered farther away from the cabin and into the forest, footsteps marking their favorite path. Ian adjusted the straps of the backpack against his shoulders and glanced at Emily beside him, who smirked up at him.

 

“Can you handle that?” she asked, teasing. The end of her nose was already pink from the cold and her dark eyes were clear, excited. It was their first hike in several months, and a special one.

 

“Ye’ll not carry a thing, stop asking.” He leaned down for what was supposed to be a quick kiss, but she grabbed the flaps of his winter hat, keeping his mouth against hers. The warmth and intimacy of the cabin still clung to her, mingling with the smell of pines and the chill of early morning snow, and he melted into her.

 

She pulled away, her cold nose brushing lightly across his cheek, and patted his arm. “That’s enough.” Emily walked ahead of him, aware that he was watching her, knowing that he would follow.

 

Ian had seen little of her over the past few months; she had been busy at the museum where she worked, leading the design and implementation of a new exhibit on artwork done by Mohawk women. Being on the mountain with her invigorated his spirit, reminded him how thankful he was she ended up being his best friend, his wife. Time away from the city felt stolen, a clock paused just for them.

 

They walked towards the ridge, a cleared space on the mountainside. They had stopped once to pull Emily’s knit mittens from the backpack, another time to double check the thermos wasn’t leaking, to make sure they’d brought milk for the tea.

 

On the ridge sat a large boulder, large enough for the two of them to lay upon, if they wanted, while they looked out over the view. The backside had been carved by Ian’s uncle, years ago: _Fraser’s Ridge_.

 

Ian spread the thick, woolen blanket over the boulder and helped Emily climb atop it, being extra cautious that she did not slip and fall.

 

“How are ye feeling?” he asked as he poured the thermos’ hot water into mugs, though she’d given no indication that she felt ill. Regardless, he worried. He always worried about her, nowadays.

 

She tore open the tea bag with her teeth. “I feel fine.”

 

“Ye’re not sick? Tired?”

 

She scoffed. “No. Though I am a bit queasy. Shouldn’t have skipped breakfast.”

 

Ian handed her a mug, and she dipped her bag of earl grey tea into the water. She watched the contents swirl and darken slightly, the steam wisping up into the crisp morning air. He grinned, giving her a knowing look. “I’m glad I didn’t skip mine. That was nice, aye?”

 

She snorted and rolled her eyes, but a flush spread across her cheeks. “ _Nice_. Milk, please?”

 

He handed it to her, and they each took a small sip. “I packed a protein bar, do ye want it?” he asked, already unzipping the pouch he’d stuffed it in. She looked curiously at the packaging before accepting it. “White chocolate and macadamia nut, yer favorite.”

 

“Thanks, Ian.” He opened his arms to her, and she leaned into him. They sat together, looking out over the mountain tops, the sun rising in the sky. They heard bird calls, the rustle of critters, the  _whoosh_  of a breeze. Pink light turned golden, then the colorless light of day.

 

“Things are going to change, you know,” Emily said. They were laying together on the boulder now, wrapped in their blanket. Her face was tucked into his shoulder, head beneath his chin. Her hair was silky against his skin. She fit comfortably around him, as if they were corresponding pieces.

 

“I expect it to.” He squeezed her. “I’m not worried.”

 

“We can handle a baby right now?”

 

“We’ll have to.”

 

“You feel ready?”

 

“Of course I’m ready.”

 

“Hm.” She buried her face in his chest, and her shoulders began to shake. For a moment, Ian thought she was crying, and his heart raced -- then, he realized she was laughing.

 

“What?” he demanded, a smile creeping across his face despite a minor flare of irritation.

 

“I’m just… so happy. Relieved,” she admitted, sitting up and wiping her face. Joy radiated from her, her eyes bright and her face open. “I think it just hit me.” She let out a breath.

 

“Just now?”

 

“Yes!” she squealed. “We’re having a baby!” She barrelled into him, holding him tight against her. He was taken aback by how solid she felt against him.

 

He laughed at her enthusiasm, a full sound that echoed against the pines. “We are. It’s why I brought ye here. I’d wanted to, last time ye... ye know… but…we never found the time.” His voice trailed off, then picked up again. “Whenever my mam was pregnant, Da would take her somewhere. I think they went to Rome one year, and they have a thing for Paris --”

 

“ _Paris_!”

 

“--but I couldna afford to take ye there.” He grinned. “It’s a little easier for them to get there than us, being on the right side of the ocean and all. I hope my Uncle’s cabin is okay. I want to celebrate with ye.”

 

Emily beamed at him, shaking her head in disbelief. “I’d thought so. But the fact that you think we can’t celebrate fine at home…”

 

“Em, it’s tradition, ye see. We’re a family, we need traditions.”

 

“But we’ve  _been_  a family. And we didn’t do this last time.” She indicated the trees around them.

 

“I know that. But then, for the  _next_  baby, we can come back to the cabin, and say we were here for this one, at least.” He reached out a hand, pressing it against her middle.

 

She grabbed his face and planted a kiss on his cheek. “Well, how can I argue with that logic.” With a movement like water, Emily ran a hand over her belly, and clasped his hand in hers. “What do you think this one is? Boy? Girl?”

 

“Girl,” Ian said, with certainty. Emily raised a brow in surprise. “You?”

 

She leaned into his side. “I think it’s another boy,” she said, and sighed.

 

__________

 

Monday came, and Ian and Emily descended the mountain to return home. Emily was due for a checkup at the doctor. It’s just routine, Ian told himself. Nothing to worry about. They’d done this before, with her last pregnancy.

 

Emily was positively glowing; it was the pregnancy, he thought, the overabundance of life that left her exuberant and beautiful. Her energy made him feel invincible.

 

They sat in the waiting room of their OBGYN, an inauthentic space masquerading as a home. The space was furnished with uncomfortable chairs and coffee tables of corkwood, bedecked with plastic plants, littered with dated and ripped magazines. The TV was boxy and running a daytime talk show, the volume too loud, the image on the screen occasionally flickering. Emily sat next to him, her leg bouncing nervously. He put a hand on her knee to steady it, making a comforting sound with his breath. She clasped his hand tight.

 

“Ian,” she said, voice low, though the tone of it alerted him. “What if something isn’t right? What if I can’t do it?”

 

He studied her carefully, how her hair tangled in a loose bun on her shoulder, how her pink sweater looked soft to touch, how worried her eyes were. He gave her a small smile.

 

“If anyone can do it, it’s you. Don’t worry until ye have something to worry about.”

 

She nodded, though the tension didn’t leave her body. Her leg started bouncing again, and Ian let it.

 

“Murray?” a woman in scrubs called. She held a clipboard and had a stethoscope around her neck.

 

Ian and Emily followed the nurse into the exam room after the weight check. Emily sat on a papered table while Ian took the seat beside it. Emily answered the nurse’s routine questions --  _How are you feeling? Any changes? Anything the doctor should know?_  -- while Ian waited patiently. The nurse took her blood pressure, made her lay back, unbutton her jeans, lift her sweater. Ian noted with familiar surprise that there was a little bump when he looked at her naked middle from the side. Their OB, Dr. Kleinman, came in briefly to discuss things with them, to follow up on the nurse’s questions and give a pelvic exam. Shortly after, she seated himself on the other side of Emily, and a computerized machine was rolled forward from the corner.

 

“Now that you’ve been poked and prodded, are you ready to see your baby?” she asked, looking at Ian and Emily for the first time. They nodded, eager -- last time they’d seen the child, it’d been shaped like a peanut, utterly unrecognizable as human life.

 

Emily’s stomach flinched as cold gel was squirted out onto her lower abdomen, the OB running the wand over her skin. Goosebumps prickled over her belly.

 

“Here we go,” said the OB, and the screen lit to what looked like static and eventually shaped itself into a recognizable ultrasound scan. Ian reached for a free hand from Emily, squeezed it. He held his breath.

 

The OB kept scanning. The room was quiet, still. They waited.

 

“Is he pretty chill today? Not moving much?”

 

Emily smiled sheepishly as if she were supposed to know something she couldn’t yet feel. “No clue.” Her voice shook, but only a tiny bit, and it was detected only by Ian. He squeezed her hand again.

 

“Here’s the little guy, he was hiding. A bit on the petite side.” Ian loosed a shallow breath, felt a tiny wave of relief. It soothed him only a little.

 

The OB kept scanning, looking, listening.  Evaluating. With each second, Ian couldn’t shake the creeping feeling that something might be wrong. Emily’s hand, the one he wasn’t holding, was clenched in a fist, and she didn’t blink as she watched the screen. “Isn’t that the baby there?” They’d done this before; it wasn’t difficult to make out the shape of the head, the torso, the feet.

 

“It is,” said the OB, carefully. “It definitely is. I’m looking for the heartbeat.”

 

Ian realized then that there was sound in this sterile room, that he could hear the fluids of Emily’s body come through the speakers, like the cabin sound on an airplane.

 

“Ye’ll find it, though?” he asked, more of a statement than a question. Only at the last minute did he remember to change the pitch of his voice to be less demanding.

 

“I seem to be having trouble finding it,” the OB admitted. “Let me keep trying.”

 

Emily’s hand clutched Ian’s so tightly he thought his knuckles might crunch. The OB furrowed her brow, only the white noise of the ultrasound machine punctuating the room. Ian hardly moved, feeling as if his chest had caved in on itself.

 

“We seem to be having a pretty difficult time locating your baby’s heartbeat. This isn’t anything to worry about right away-- there could be several reasons why that may be the case.”

 

She stood from her seat, wiped the gel from Emily’s abdomen with a large napkin, and discarded it along with his latex glove. The ultrasound machine was off now. Silence had never been so deafening, so loud.

 

There was a crinkle of tissue paper as Emily sat up and adjusted her clothing. Ian flexed the hand she had held, working to get some feeling back into it. Neither of them spoke, their fear too heavy for words.

 

Emily, hesitating, faintly spoke up. “But it  _could_ mean something bad?”

 

The doctor nodded. “It could, but not always. What I’m going to do is send you to the hospital; they are better equipped to help investigate this. Our machine doesn’t have the same capabilities as the imaging department at the hospital. There, we can get a clearer sense of what is going on with the baby today. Is that okay?”

 

They nodded robotically.

 

“So you’re sending us today? We’ll know today?” Ian didn’t bother mitigating how demanding he might sound.

  
“What could be going on?” Emily was quieter, more reserved.

 

Dr. Kleinman clicked a pen, writing something down. “It’s still very early in your pregnancy, and depending on the placement of your placenta we might not be able to pick it up with our machine. Or the baby might be awkwardly positioned inside it. However, the issue is not only that I couldn’t hear the heartbeat, but I couldn’t see it, either. This could mean nothing, or it could mean something is wrong.”

 

Emily made a noise, like a stifled cry.

 

“Will the hospital take us now?”

 

Dr. Kleinman looked at Ian over her half-moon glasses. “I’ll have the nurse call and make the appointment. Be prepared-- they’re a bit busy today.”

 

An appointment was made for 4 o’ clock. Six hours.

 

They drove home in silence, tried to be normal when they got there.

 

Rollo, excited for Ian to be home from his weekend away, had greeted them at the front door, tail wagging. Their dog sitter had left notes-- Rollo had been out for a walk just a couple hours ago.

 

Emily hadn’t looked at Ian since the doctor shared the news. She was receding into herself, curling inward as she held a book, her eyes staring blankly at the words. Ian decided to take Rollo for a walk despite the note from the dog sitter that he’d just been out. Ian needed to be out of this still, quiet house. Needed to move. Wanted to, but found he couldn’t. He froze in the door frame, looking out at their neighborhood, leash in hand.

 

Rollo sat and glanced at Ian, gave a high pitched whine. Rollo was right. Ian didn’t need a walk.

 

He needed Emily, and she him.

 

He thought he’d be getting a photo of his child to take home today. He made his way to the couch, wrapped his body around hers. She folded into him as naturally as a flag snapped in the breeze. Even hurting, they were still in sync.

 

Could it be possible the pregnancy was not viable?

 

He breathed in the scent of her hair and prayed. Tried to sleep. She slept, too--or tried to.

 

What followed next was a blur.

 

Ian drove them to the hospital, helped Emily out of the car. Walked the long way out of the parking garage and into the building. Felt how heavy his footsteps were on the white tile floor.

 

Emily checked herself in, came to sit by his side.

 

Another waiting room. At least this one knew it was a hospital, rather than faking the look of the home. The colors here were grey, white. There were TVs but they were silent, black-barred captions scrolling across the screen. People sat around them. Some had obvious things wrong with them-- one’s skin was yellow, another was nursing a painful arm in a sling, others were napping. Some, like Ian and Emily, quietly waited, as if being well behaved in the waiting room would give them a better shot for the results they wanted.

 

Emily was called. They went into the room together. She answered the same questions she was asked this morning --  _How are you feeling? Has anything changed? Is there anything the doctor should know about?_  -- then she was instructed to lie back with her abdomen exposed. Gel was once again applied, but this time by a gloved ultrasound tech, supervised by a strange doctor in a white lab coat; this time she didn’t flinch.

 

This room was larger and much darker than the one at the OBGYN. The technology was large and intimidating with its blinking lights and screens, taunting them with their ability to predict, to know.

 

The cabin sound returned, clearer this time. There was less static. White noise, white noise. The shapes that made their baby appeared on the screen, white blending into the black background. There was something in there. There had to be.

 

Ian could see it, but he couldn’t hear it. There was no heartbeat to be found.

 

 


	4. Part 3

**Present day**

 

Ian was slumped on the couch, still in his clothes from the night before. On the coffee table was an array of beer bottles scattered amongst the take-out boxes from the Chinese food he’d ordered on impulse. The TV was on, playing some morning talk show. At Ian’s feet was a large cardboard box of paint bottles in utter disarray from when he’d rifled through it like a madman, hours ago, mentally cataloguing the pigment and organizing the brushes.  

 

Digger had woken often throughout the night; after the third time, Ian stopped counting. His son would cry, or call for him in a whimpering voice, or silently wander out into the living area, seeking a comforting touch. And where Digger went, Rollo went as well. If Ian didn’t solve Digger’s problem fast enough, if he’d grabbed the wrong flavor Pedialyte, if he hadn’t tucked the boy into bed tightly enough, if he didn’t take the boy’s temperature often enough, Rollo would utter a disapproving grunt and nip at whatever body part of Ian’s was within reach. _Damned dog_ , Ian thought. _I’m the parent, not you._

 

Digger was now playing with his toys in his room. He’d woken early and showed no signs of going back to sleep, despite the restless night. The light from his bedroom shone in the dark hallway, reaching the middle of the stairs before the dimness of the living room swallowed it, keeping Ian wrapped in darkness. But he could hear his son, the clattering and crashing of toy cars as Digger ran them down a plastic track.

 

There was a slight knock on the door. Like clockwork. Nine o’clock, just as she’d said.

 

With a groan, Ian peeled himself from the couch cushions, his body protesting with the movement. His stomach churned and his head swirled — he’d had too much to drink last night.

 

He fumbled with the latched door lock and opened it, leaning against the frame. “Auntie Claire,” he said, forcing a smile. He swung the door wide and stepped aside for her to sweep past him and remove her loafers. He watched her take in his shabby appearance and the trash left over from his bender, but he was determined to stand tall.

 

“Good morning, Ian. What’s gone on?” she asked. “Is Digger alright?”

 

“He’s fine,” Ian assured his aunt as Digger’s dark head bobbed into the room, breaking into a full sprint before hugging Claire.

 

“Auntie Claire, Auntie Claire!” He wore blue pajama bottoms, patterned with dinosaurs, and a matching shirt. He was barefoot and stood on his tip toes.

 

Claire knelt to Digger’s height and smiled, scanning him. “Are you feeling better? How’s your belly?”

 

“It’s good.” Her eyes flicked to Ian’s for confirmation as she reached out a hand to his forehead, feeling for his temperature.

 

“And the last time you puked?”

 

“Last night!”

 

“He was asleep before we even got home last night,” Ian interrupted. “Last time he threw up was probably around 3 AM. Yeah.” Digger turned around and laughed at his father, as if vomiting were a game to play, and Ian laughed with him.

 

Claire nodded, then turned back to Digger. “Have you had breakfast yet? How about some scrambled eggs?”

 

“With cheese!”

 

“Your belly is feeling good enough for cheese?”

 

“Yes!”

 

“Well alright, then, cheese it is.” Digger dashed away, leaving Ian alone with his aunt. He took a conscious step in the direction of the coffee table, as if blocking it from view would prevent his aunt from asking questions.

 

Comfortable in his kitchen, Claire gathered a pan, eggs, butter, and cheese, and set to work. Ian brewed coffee, the aroma of the grounds waking him up. The task gave him an excuse to turn his back on Claire, hiding from her sharp gaze. But it didn’t last long.

 

“So, what’s up?” she asked, too casually.

 

He shrugged, mug in hand.

 

“Did you catch Digger’s bug?”

 

He shook his head. “No.”  

 

“Well, that’s good,” she said, beginning to mix the eggs. “Because if you’re looking to _avoid_ vomiting, beer is not the way to go.” She gave him a look that reminded him of being scolded by his mother and he scoffed at her.

 

“Alright, alright.”

 

“What’s going on, Ian?”

 

In his mind, he heard Emily’s nervous voicemail, could almost touch her worry and fear and pain. In his arms he felt the soft, hot weight of a sick Digger. He took a shallow breath.

 

“I, uh,” he said, before clearing his throat. “I can’t…”

 

Claire pursed her lips and waited for a moment, but eventually nodded. “You don’t have to tell me. Did you sleep at all last night?” Her gaze roved over his body, taking notice of the clothes she’d seen him in yesterday, wrinkled and limp. “Your eyes are very red.”

 

Ian ran his hands over his face and dropped into a dining room chair, sitting on the edge. He felt like crying, but nothing was left. He didn’t know what to do with himself; he was restless and twitchy, trying to find a output for his energy.  “I need to leave,” he announced, eventually shooting up out of the chair. “To get ready for work, I mean. Are you all set to watch Digger today?”

 

Claire made a gesture with her hand, clearly indicating that she had things handled, and Ian stalked off to his bedroom to shave and shower.

 

* * *

 

 

Cursing, Ian slammed the drawer on his work station, causing it to rattle and the pens on top to jump. He’d lost his phone charger.

 

“What the hell?” Brianna was in the doorway of his workroom.

 

“ _What_?” Ian snapped.

 

“What is wrong with you?” She studied him for a second when he didn’t answer her, but something in her demeanor softened a bit and she ended up dropping the question. “You’re needed up front.” She jerked her chin in the direction of the front door. “There’s people waiting.”

 

“And you can’t do it because…?”

 

She narrowed her eyes at him. “You know, you’ve been in this mood all day. I’m over it.”

 

“Where’s Jessa?”

 

“She’s out today. You agreed to cover for her.” Brianna squared her shoulders. “We’ve been open for nearly two hours without anyone up front. Get up there.”

 

Muttering vulgarities, Ian stalked down the short hallway and entered the lobby, where a single woman stood. Without looking at her, he rested his knuckles on the counter and looked over the desk calendar with its rolled corners, paper wrinkled by sweating iced coffees. He already knew she’d want an appointment. “What can we do for ye?”

 

“I’d like a tattoo,” she said, matter-of-fact but cautious, clearly picking up on his attitude.

 

“Mm-hm. What and when?” Ian grabbed a red pen and held it above a date. The week was fairly full, but depending on what she wanted, he might be able to fit her in.

 

“I wanted a consult, first. I’m looking for a specific artist to do mine.”

 

“Who?” he asked, his voice dead as he scanned the appointment slots. He did not want to be at work today. He wanted to be at home, with Digger. He saw her hand clench into a fist on the counter, and then relax.

 

“I’m pretty sure I was looking for you,” she said. “You’re Ian Murray. Right? I recognize you from your Instagram.”

 

Mildly surprised, Ian finally glanced at her but said nothing. Her hair was dark brown in color and full, falling just past her shoulders. She nervously swept a hand through it, and strands of her hair caught a deep auburn in sunlight. Conservatively dressed, she wore a dark green sweater under a black leather jacket paired with dark jeans.

 

“I already have something in mind,” she said, reaching into the pocket of her jacket. “But I was wondering if you could put some of your style into it? I like what you do. Neo-traditional, right? I want this to look old school, but fresh.” She handed him a piece of paper and he took it, unfolded it.

 

It was an illustration of a white dove. Unremarkable. He handed it back to her. “No.”

 

She froze. “No?”

 

“No.”

 

He turned away from her, moving to check the voicemails blinking on the phone.

 

“Oh. You mean like, you’re booked? I’d be willing to wait. Whenever your schedule opens up. Or...are you-- you’re not, not tattooing anymore?”

 

He scoffed, but didn’t respond to her, and picked up the receiver.

 

“You know, I drove over an hour to come here.”

 

“Ye should’ve called first.”

 

“I did,” she insisted. “But you _are_ Ian Murray, right? This is you?”

 

Quick on the draw, she unlocked her phone and held it to his eye level. It showed his Instagram portfolio, where his best pieces were showcased. A floral forearm, a ship on a shin, a coverup of a sports team logo into a wolf, and various other pieces. She scrolled and immediately landed on a selfie he had taken at this very desk, as if she had looked at it a hundred times. Then she pointedly glanced at his exposed forearms, his sleeves rolled up. Nearly every inch of skin, excluding his palms, was inked in black, blue, and red patterns of drawings and words. A skull, a spider in a web, and a deer head, among others; he shook his arms to loosen the roll of his sleeves, as if to cover himself. The ink identified him as much as his face did. He turned away.

 

“Hey!” she protested as he angled himself further away from her. If they weren’t strangers to each other, he thought she’d tear the phone from his hands.

 

She glowered at him, turning to leave. “You know what? Never mind.” The bell chimed as the door closed behind her.

 

Brianna, who had come into the lobby to grab a client, had seen the whole exchange. Ian grunted in her direction. “After work,” she said to him, “You and I are getting a drink.”

 

* * *

 

“So,” Bree said, settling into the booth at the bar after work, a mug of beer in her hand. “Tell us.” Roger sat alongside her, still in the suit coat and tie he wore to work. The shop always closed late and it was nighttime. Digger might already be in bed.

 

Ian ran a finger along the frost on his glass, eyes tracing the melted trail from his touch. He shifted awkwardly in his seat. “While I appreciate your concern,” he began, feeling the fist clench even tighter in his chest, “It’s really nothing for ye to worry about.”

 

“You chasing customers out of our shop with your attitude is nothing for me to worry about?” Brianna asked. “You’re joking.”

 

“I’m not.” His eyes were dry and weary, and he blinked frequently as if he couldn’t keep them open. But he knew that lying down wouldn’t bring him much sleep.

 

She opened her mouth as if to argue before Roger laid a hand on her arm. “Bree.”

 

Roger turned his gaze to Ian and said quietly, “The only reason we ask is because we’re worried. We haven’t seen ye like this in a long time.”

 

Ian sipped his drink. The flavor was hoppy and crisp, waking him a little. He stared at the ceiling, the taps at the bar, the servers -- it was so much easier to ignore the people who talked to him. He just needed to put in his time with Brianna and Roger, then he could go home and hold Digger. His phone was dead, so he hadn’t heard from Auntie Claire all day. The faster he drank his beer, the faster he could get out of here. He took another gulp.

 

Roger was giving him that look, that minister’s look, that MacKenzie look, the one that makes people want to crack. Brianna was closed off, as though calculating something, though Ian could see worry, heartbreak. As if she had a sixth sense that could predict what he was going through if only he would name it.

 

The doubled pressure of their eyes on him made him squirm. He needed to get home to Digger. He made as if to stand, but as he did so, he bumped the table, sending the contents of his beer glass flying. He swore and grabbed a fistful of napkins, mopping it up.

 

They both helped him dry the wet table, responding with assurances to Ian’s muttered apologies.  

 

Ian slumped back into his seat and pushed the nearly empty glass of beer away from him. “I need to go,” he said with a scowl, but made no move to stand this time. How could they have kept him here for so long? Didn’t they have children of their own to care for?

 

He was tired. So, so tired. Was Digger tired, too? Was he sleeping already? He clenched his hands into fists, and then released them.

 

Digger was his whole life. Emily had been once, too.

 

“Emily called,” he said, his voice flat. Brianna and Roger looked on with interest, waiting. He took a deep breath, determined to push through the tight feeling in his chest. He barrelled through it, but it didn’t dissipate, didn’t budge. “She filed for custody,” he managed to get out. “I’m going to lose my son.”

 

Bree let out a breath and glanced at Roger, whose eyes were steady on Ian over the oak wood table. Bree spoke. “Well, not necessarily. You could... fight it.”

 

Ian scoffed. “With _what_? Tell the court I work long hours? That my income is unstable? That he spends more time with Auntie Claire than me? Don’t be ridiculous.”

 

“But it’s _not_ ridiculous,” she insisted. “Digs has lived with you for years. They wouldn’t uproot him for nothing.”

 

“Ye don’t know that.”

 

“Why do you think it would even be a question?”

 

“She’s his _mam_ , Bree,” he said, stating the obvious.

 

“And you’re his father. She doesn’t have a right to do this to him. Or you.”

 

Anger spiked in Ian, laced with an odd-feeling need to defend his ex-wife, whom he once loved. “Of course she does, Bree. She has every right to try. How’d it be if it were you and Roger? Would ye give up on Jemmy, if you were her? Leave him to live with Roger, only? Would ye be content with seeing him only on weekends, or even less often, and having no say with a doctor in an emergency?”

 

She reached for Roger’s arm, as if it would steady her. Roger hadn’t moved to speak at all, watching the exchange between Brianna and Ian closely, though a muscle in his jaw twitched.

 

“I’m not Emily,” Bree said, her statement tinged with dislike for the woman. “It’s different.”

 

“No,” Ian replied. “Yer not. And ye have no idea what she’s been through; ye canna possibly judge.”

 

Bree’s ferocity softened into quiet worry. “Okay,” she said, slowly. “How can we help?”

 

“Ye can’t,” Ian snapped, and pushed out from the table, not caring about paying. He wanted to be alone, he wanted to be with Digger, a part of him even wanted to be with Emily, to talk to her like he once could-- he couldn’t decide what he wanted. The only thing he knew was he couldn’t stay here. The well had run out; Ian was spent. He made his way towards the door, making a beeline for his Jeep.

 

“William?” Ian blurted, startled by the appearance of his cousin as he opened the door. They met under the red neon bar light, a third person partially obstructed by William’s shoulder.

 

“Ian!” William grinned widely at Ian and held out his hand in greeting. Ian took it, shook it.

 

“You look like hell,” William continued. “Just terrible. What’s wrong with you?”

 

Ian shook his head, dodging the question. “I didn’t know ye were in town. What brings ye here?”

 

“Work, mostly,” William responded. “Though it is nice to catch up with old friends. This is Rachel.” He motioned with his thumb towards the third person, a woman. “Rachel, Ian, Ian, Rachel,” he introduced them, mocking the awkwardness of formalities.

 

“We’ve met,” she said dryly, not removing her hands from her jacket’s pockets and blatantly ignoring the tentative one Ian had held out for a handshake. “Earlier today.” She was the same dark-haired woman who had come into the shop earlier that day, looking to schedule a tattoo consult with him.

 

Ian took back his hand with a huff of breath, ignoring how William was monitoring the two of them.

 

“Sorry I was rude to ye,” he muttered, only half meaning it. “Could ye... come back tomorrow, maybe, and I’ll see what I can do?”

 

He clenched his jaw, waited.

 

Rachel narrowed her eyes at him, but she didn’t answer.

 

“You’ve...met,” William repeated Rachel, then he laughed. “Small world.”

 

Ian scowled at the two of them, taking offense. “I have to go,” he snarled, and brushed past  them, grumbling about small towns and big families.

 


	5. Part 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The after-shocks of Ian and Emily's devastating news.

**A few years ago**

Ian knew something was off the moment the car rolled into the driveway. Maybe it was the way the headlights flashed into the living room,casting a grid-like beam illuminating their wedding photos, or maybe it was how the tires crunched on the white gravel driveway.

 

Rollo sat guard at the window. The baby in Ian’s arms wriggled and grunted against him, his dimpled hands rolling into fists for just a moment. Digger was getting big, and at certain angles, Ian could see the toddler emerging, his infancy transient and fleeting. In the kitchen, Ian rinsed out Digger’s last bottle under warm tap water and waited for Emily to come inside. 

 

He had a fleeting thought that he should put Digger in his crib before she saw him. He didn’t know what kind of state she would be in. 

 

A slam of a car door, a jingle of keys, a click of the lock, several footsteps, and there she was. She swayed on the spot, her eyes glazed over, and Ian cut off the faucet. Silence spread before them, only the sound of the sink draining as they looked at each other. 

 

He watched as she actively fought it, suppressing her drunkenness so as not to upset him like she had before. 

 

But it didn’t matter to Ian right now. 

 

“Was that you driving?” he asked, his voice less affected than he felt. He held Digger close, pressing the small body, so helplessly dependent on him and Emily for everything, The baby made a sucking noise with its mouth, on the verge of falling asleep.

 

Shifting on her feet, not looking at him, she considered how to answer him, to balance the truth with what he didn’t need to know and what she didn’t want to admit.

 

It was dark in the kitchen, and late. The only light came from the range light above the stove. Her keys gave a soft rattle as her fingers fiddled with them. She blinked, hard, and sniffed. 

 

The weight of the fractures, broken thing they’d become hung between them, oppressively pushing against them both. Ian left the kitchen, walking to the stairs through the door furthest from her, needing to be anywhere but around Emily. Rollo was his shadow, and Ian took comfort in the reassuring rhythm of the tags on his collar keeping time as they followed first in the kitchen, then down the hall, and finally settling in with a huff of air at the foot of the crib in Digger’s room. 

 

It was dark in this room, too, only a bit of moonlight coming through the window, casting the space in blue and grey. Ian moved swiftly to lay Digger down, the familar contours of the room easily navigable day or night. Ian occupied himself with busy work in the nursery, refolding burp cloths, evening diaper stacks. He was checking the baby monitor as he heard the creak of the stairs, small footsteps moving down their hallway. He hesitated, just a for a moment, then withdrew from Digger’s room. 

 

“I’m sorry,” Emily said to him as he entered their bedroom. He barely heard her, making his way to the dresser to take out his pajama bottoms. 

 

After a moment, he replied, “Sorry for what,” his voice monotone. He shut the drawer, wooden and heavy. 

 

“For this. For ruining this.” Her knuckles were white as she clutched at her knees, and her face was pale, drawn. The second their eyes made contact, they each turned away, unable to look at one another. She tried to laugh, but it came out a sob, reverberating through him. 

 

He hovered some distance away from her, unsure if he could touch her. Did she want him to? Did  _ he _ ? His hands hung useless at his sides. 

 

His silence swelled between them, punishing them both. He knew she wanted to talk, could sense it in the way her lips were pursed and how she held her breath. He should say something, shouldn’t he? But he had no words to start, no solid path to set them on that wouldn’t  turn their discussion into an argument. It always did. They had long ago passed a point of no return, and now one of them always went too far, unable to stop without yelling and fighting, words between them crackling and popping until they burst into flame.

 

But this time felt different. He could still sense her, them inside himself, the dull promise of glowing embers, but he no longer had any desire to build the flame and he knew everything was dying. 

 

She eventually turned away from him, looking very fragile even as her edges gleamed razor sharp. They no longer pointed at him; it was no longer worth the effort to fight, to lie to themselves.

 

“I’ll sleep downstairs,” she mumbled, brushing past him.

 

Feeling panic spread through his body, he clenched and released his hands at his side, a futile gesture as it did nothing to relieve his dread and anxiety.

 

Not once had she asked about Digger or made a move to see him, even to say hello. Ian couldn’t remember the last time she’d touched their son.  

 

He heard her in the kitchen, probably getting herself something to eat. 

 

He went to bed, the light of the baby monitor glinting green on his end table. 

 

_______________ 

 

Always sleeping light these days, Ian woke to the sound of sniffling cries, echoing through the baby monitor. It took a few moments for his groggy brain to register, but it wasn’t Digger who wept. 

The door to Digger’s room was open, and Ian caught her shadowed reflection cast against the nightlight. She was on the floor, back pressed into a wall, her head buried in her knees. Rollo kept vigil by the crib, still, but his ears were up, eyes trained on her. Focused. 

 

“Emily,” Ian whispered, creeping over to her. She would wake the baby if she stayed here. 

 

She made no move to indicate that she heard him beyond a sharp inhale of a suppressed sob. 

 

“Emily,” he said again when he reached her. He put his hands under her arms, urging her to stand. 

 

She fought him, her knees locked. He looked over to the crib, where the baby slept. 

 

“Please get up,” he begged. His voice cracked as if he was going to cry, too. “C’mon.” 

 

She let him lead her out of the room and into the bathroom. He flicked the light on, shutting the door gently behind them. 

 

Seated on the toilet with the lid closed, she took some toilet paper and pressed it against her face. He knew that he could leave now. He wanted to. But he stayed, perching himself on the edge of the bathtub, waiting.

 

“Nothing turned out like I pictured it would,” she said, her hand drifting to her belly, where it was round and taut, as if her pregnancy were normal. Healthy. 

 

The doctor advised them to wait until her body figured it out on its own. That was safest, they were told. But days had crept by, then weeks, poisoning them. 

 

“Me neither,” he replied, meaning more than just that.

 

“I won’t stop you from leaving,” she said. “Go.” She jerked her chin at the door. 

 

He closed his eyes, focusing on a dull throbbing at his temples. He couldn’t look at her. Seeing her like this hurt too much.

 

“I’ll stay,” he replied. “We’re here for you.” Meaning he and Digger. 

 

“You’re not.” She was matter of fact about it. But she wouldn’t look at him. “I’m not sure, if this is best. You and me, you know. When I see you, when you look at me, I see it. How I disappoint you--” 

 

“Ye don’t,” he cut in, but she ignored him. 

 

“--and I can’t live with that, I just can’t. I can’t face your family--” 

 

“Em, ye can’t worry about them--” 

 

“--because I failed them, too. But it hurts most to have failed you. I thought I could do it, I thought I could be a mother--” 

 

“Ye’re already a mother--” 

 

“--but I can’t. It’s not my path. Digger -- he --” She wept, her face in his hands. 

 

“He’s only a baby--” 

 

“--I hate him. I hate my baby. I don’t know what to do, I hate him, I feel like he wasn’t supposed to be here, wasn’t supposed to have happened. I don’t feel like a mother, some days I don’t even want to be one. I can’t touch him, can’t even look at him -- ”

 

“Emily-- Em--” He reached out towards her but let his hands drop, pleading with her. “Please, ye gotta see someone.” 

 

“No, I -- I can’t. I can’t do it, I can’t tell anyone-- ”  

 

Ian felt his chest tighten, felt it becoming harder and harder to breathe. He had to remind himself that this was temporary, had to be, and watched as she clutched at her abdomen, holding it as if it were a comfort object. But he knew it only made her more distraught. 

 

“So ye’ll give up?” he asked her. “Ye want to give up?” 

 

She didn’t respond, only trembled. 

 

He moved towards her, cautious as a person approaching a feral cat. He knelt at her feet, reaching to hold her. Quicker than he expected, she reached for him, too, and held him tight, her fingers pressing deep enough to leave bruises. She pressed her face into his neck and sobbed, any last resistance from her evaporating under his touch. He held her while she cried. 

 

“I won’t give up on you,” he said, once she had settled enough to maybe listen. “Everything you’re going through, we can handle -- together.” 

 

“I’m not what you wanted,” she replied with the defiance of someone ruled by fear. “I’m not it. I’m not made for you. This hurts for you; I’m hurting you. It’s my fault.” 

 

It hurt to hear it. 

 

“I’m not what you wanted,” she pressed. “Am I?”

 

He held her tight against his chest, breathing deep the warm scent of her. “Ye are. You are everything I’ve ever wanted.”

 

She seemed to relax at that, even as she said, “I’ve ruined so many things. I’m sorry.” 

 

He swallowed. “I’m sorry, too, for ruining things.” 

 

“You don’t, though. You take care of Digs, and the house-- I’m no help.” 

 

“It’s okay. Because ye’ll heal.” 

 

“What if I don’t?” 

 

He felt her tears through the thin t-shirt he wore. She was surprisingly frail. 

 

“Ye will,” he said to her.  

  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for reading. Let me know what you think! I'd love to hear from you!


	6. Part 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Back at home in present day, and back in that tattoo shop, too.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A note on betas -- 
> 
> Thanks to theministerskat and WhiskyNotTea for beta-ing this chapter.
> 
> Previous chapters of this HB have been beta'd by theministerskat, WhiskyNotTea, AbbyDebeaupre, and owlish_peacock in various pairs and iterations. Many sincere apologies for not crediting your beta work before, if ever, on AO3. Betas make the fic world spin 'round, nixing unneeded adverbs and adjectives, watching for inconsistencies in plots/characterizations, and telling me when something I wrote truly sucks. But they're the world's best cheerleaders, too, and my stories would never be published without their unwavering support.
> 
> For those of you who may regularly read my writing (THANK YOU!), I frequently work with my husband in the beta/editing process. He does not have an AO3 account and does not publish fic, but he's a writer I trust more than anything. He has reviewed every single word I have ever published, for better or for worse, and often has a hand in helping me shape my stories. I hand him something dull and a bit rough around the edges and he hands it back to me all fancy and glossy. He's the best.

**Present day**

 

Ian and Digger were seated at the dining room table, dirty dishes from a hasty dinner of grilled cheese and tomato soup pushed towards the middle.

  


It was clear Digger did not want to be at the table. He did not want to do his homework.

  


“Settle down,” Ian scolded, scooting his son’s chair closer to his. All the better to wrangle the boy, should he try to escape. “We need to practice yer spelling words.”

  


“But I don’t _want_ to practice,” Digger whined, and his chin wrinkled, threatening a meltdown. “I want to play tablet.”

  


“No tablet until tomorrow. You know there’s no screen time after dinner. Practice with me for just a little while. Now, try. How do you spell ‘crew’?” He held the paper with the spelling test in front of his nose, angling it so Digger couldn’t cheat. The score, 5 out of 12, glared at Ian in a taunting green marker. While Digger was a strong reader, he still struggled with spelling words. In large, uncertain handwriting of a child, the spelling test bore mostly simple, phonetic spellings.

  


When the kid made to protest, Ian grew more insistent. “Crew. Spell it.” This was a word Digger knew.

  


Recognizing a brick wall when he saw one, Digger didn’t fight Ian, instead choosing to concentrate on the word. “C-R-E-W.”

  


“Good job. Now, try ‘blew.’”

  


“Blew?”

  


“Blew.”

  


“Um. B,” Digger paused. “B-L.”

  


“Uh-huh, go on,” Ian said, nodding.  

  


Digger looked uncertain, his legs wiggling in his chair. The restless energy behind the movement made Ian reach out a hand to hold his legs steady, to keep the chair from scraping the floor.

  


“Blew. Bleeeeeewwwww. The wolf _blew_ the house down. What makes an ‘oo’ sound?”

  


“O? U?”

  


“Sometimes,” Ian conceded. “But not in this word. What other letters might ‘oo’?”

  


“Da, can’t I just play with my tablet?”

  


“No. Try again. Blew.”

  


Digger sighed, theatrically throwing his head back against the back of his seat. “I don’t _know_ ,” his voice a high pitched complaint. He gave a sigh.

  


“Ye do know. Here, would ye like to write it down?” Ian flipped over a scrap of paper from Digger’s school folder and tried to hand him a chewed pencil. “Write ‘crew’ first. Maybe that will help.”

  


Digger pushed the paper away. “I don’t want to, I don’t know it!”

  


The boy looked so upset Ian nearly laughed, but he spared Digger the embarrassment. A need to be certain about all things rather than taking blind stabs in the dark seemed to be a family trait the boy was growing into, taking after his grandfather. Overall, precaution is a desirable trait in an adult, Ian reasoned, but it made school lessons at six years old a pain. Ian did smile, though.

  


“Just tell me!”

  


“Alright,” Ian shrugged. “I’ll tell ye. But only if ye spell ‘crew’ right again.”

  


“C-R-E-W!”

  


“B-L-E-W.”

  


“B-L- _E_ - _W_?” Digger repeated with a tone of disgust.

  


Ian smirked.

  


“It’s the same!”

  


“I know. Now you spell it.”

  


“C-R--- no! _B-_ L-E-W!” he said, emphasizing the first letter.

  


“Very good. Ready for the next one?”

  


“No!” But he was only teasing.

  


“Yes, ye are,” Ian said over Digger’s laughter.  His phone rang, and Ian dropped the spelling paper and picked it up without looking at it, expecting a call from his mother. It was Friday night and she always called to hear the news from the week, maybe invite him over for dinner Sunday. He hadn’t yet told her Emily had filed for custody. He dreaded doing so, but had decided it was news he needed to give in person.

  


“Hello?” he answered.

  


“Hi.”

  


Emily. Ian felt the ground lurch beneath him.

  


“Uh… Hi.”

  


Digger waited all of a few seconds before bounding away for his tablet. Ian let him go.

  


“Sorry,” she said, sounding very uncertain.  

  


“For what?”

  


A pause. “Are you busy?”

  


Ian studied the direction his son ran, felt his chest tightening. “No, I have a minute. What’s up?”

  


“I was wondering if -- well, this weekend is my weekend, technically, and I thought…”

  


Ah. “Ye want to see Digger?”

  


“I do,” she replied, her voice quietly hopeful.

  


Ian pinched the bridge of his nose, silently blew out an exhale. “Of course ye can,” he said to her, trying to mean it. Wanting this for Digger. Trying not to think about what this means.

  


He could hear her smile. “Great. Okay. Do you want me to pick him up somewhere, or come grab him…?”

  


“Ye ken where the house is,” he said, direct but soft. He ignored how his pulse sounded in his ears. Emily...he was speaking to Emily. She was coming to get Digger.

  


“I’ll be there at seven. Is that okay?” Ian glanced at the clock, which read six o’clock. An hour to get Digger ready. “And I’ll have him back Sunday night, at seven, same time. I’ll bring him to you.” She sounded eager, even if she was clearly trying to hide it. “Okay, then. That’s all, I think. Is there ...anything I should know?”

  


_About what?_ he wanted to bite back. “Well,” and he said instead, slowly, “Digger has been struggling with spelling, and has a test on Monday. I’ve been trying to practice with him a little bit every evening.”

  


“Oh.” A pause. “Okay, just send his spelling list along, and Jeremy and I will help him--”

  


“Emily,” he cut her off.

  


“Hm?”

  


“Are ye…” What could he say? What did he want to say? The dynamic had shifted between them; she wanted to be with Digger. She was picking up the phone to call Ian about him. She seemed to have stabilized herself. And now Ian’s world felt suddenly fragile, and he felt the ground beneath him start to crack as if he were walking on melting ice.

  


She waited for him to speak, and he cleared his throat. “I’ll see ye at seven. He’ll be ready.”

  


* * *

 

 

The thing Ian remembered most about his appointment with Rachel the next day was how the sun from his studio window kept catching in the irises of her eyes, the color shifting from brown to green to gold to brown again. He never quite knew what would be looking out at him, and it unsettled him.

  


Most of all, he liked Rachel. She was easy to talk to, and very attractive, her dark hair thick and curling at the ends, brushing against her shoulders. She wore a plain white t-shirt today, her leather jacket draped over the back of her chair. He welcomed the distraction of her from his empty house at home, where he wasn’t quite sure what to do with himself.

  


And he had been wrong; the idea she had for a tattoo of a white dove was beautiful, and he itched to sketch it out for her. During the appointment they launched right into things, volleying ideas back and forth, their discussion revealing to Ian that she had indeed thought long and hard about having him as her artist. She’d come prepared with examples of his previous work, saved to her phone, and told him what she liked. While she did carry a small example of the _‘kind of thing’_ she was looking for, it wasn’t anything like what she actually wanted. She wanted to totally redesign it, only using the initial image as a launch pad.

  


And it wasn’t just a dove. It was sky, flowers, words: _I walk beside thee_. The dove’s wings spread, its feet curled inward as if in flight. She had opinions, several of them, and she voiced them in a direct way that Ian found charming. But she trusted him to do what he wanted, too, instinctually understanding how the artist’s hand would be valuable to her.

  


“Have you been tattooed before?” he asked, scanning her as they sat only a few feet apart, a notepad on his knee.

  


“No.” Her voice had an edge, as if she thought he would try to talk her out of it.

  


He raised his eyebrows at her over his pen. “Just a question. Where d’ye want it?”

  


“Oh! Right.” She sat up straight, elongating her torso and uncrossing her arms and legs. “Here.” She pointed to the space just between and below her breasts. “With the wings…” She cupped her breasts and lifted them, showing him how she wanted the dove’s wings spread beneath, their wingspan following the curve of her flesh. “See?”

  


Ian’s mouth twitched, and it was a moment before he took down a note. “Across the ribs, below the sternum.”

  


“Under the breasts.” She strained her neck as if making sure he wrote it down. He did.

  


“Do you think anyone will see it?” she asked.

  


“Only when ye go to the beach. Or go topless.”

  


Her cheeks went a bit pink, but not from embarrassment. “Right, but not in a normal shirt?”

  


“Shouldn’t. Is there someone who doesna want ye to get a tattoo, Rachel?” he found himself asking.

  


“Not really,” she remarked. “It’s just… more for me than anyone else.”

  


He nodded in understanding. “So tell me; why didn’t ye say ye were William’s girlfriend when you came in here yesterday?”

  


While Ian got along with his cousin just fine, they were not close, their differences very apparent. William was clean-cut, his clothes expensive and trendy. Ian… not so much. He wore what was comfortable, his look messier, often wearing the same shirt twice in one week.

  


She blinked, surprised. “What …”

  


“Ye’re not…?”

  


She laughed. “No, no. I mean, we were. Once. But not anymore.” She shrugged and flashed Ian a smile. “Turns out, he’s not my type.”

  


Ian smirked at her, taking in her leather jacket and boots. She was well put together, not a hair out of line, and he found his mind wandering to what she might look like more disheveled.  

  


He turned, quickly, and set his notebook among his sketches. “Ye’re friends, though?”

  


“Yep, friends.” He turned back to see her stretch her arms above her head, looking almost as if she might yawn, and get up. She put her jacket back on. Ian glanced at the way her chest moved when she stretched, telling himself he just wanted to know what the canvas beneath the t-shirt looked like. “Is that all?” She turned those eyes on him, and he stood to walk her out.

  


“For now, yes. I’ll text ye when I have a sketch ready and we can get together again, if ye approve it.”

  


She waved a hand. “Oh, bah. I’m not worried. I like everything that you suggested.”

  


He found himself lingering at the door, though he wasn’t sure why. “Take care.”

  


“Hm. Thanks.” And with the jingle of a bell, she was gone.

  


As he turned to head back into his private studio, his mind and fingers already humming with the need to create, to draw, he spotted Brianna at the desk. She smiled cheekily at him.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is my most subscribed story --I love my HB readers!! The reception for this rarepair fic is blowing me away. Thank you all for your support! Always let me know what you think in the comments! Any guesses on how the Ian/Rachel relationship might develop? ;)


	7. Part 6

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jenny calls.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> betas my hubs, WhiskyNotTea and monisse.

**Present day cont.**

 

Sunday. Something echoed hollowly in Ian’s chest, and Rollo lingered near him, as if on guard. The house had never been so empty and quiet before, with Digger gone. This wasn’t the first time Emily had taken him for a visit, but it felt like it.

 

Ian considered going out for yet another bike ride, just to get out of the house, but they’d already biked together at dawn and Rollo showed no signs of needing or wanting more exercise. Sprawled on the couch with the finished sketch of Rachel’s tattoo in his hands, he reached down to give the dog a scratch between the ears.

 

The sketch was done, completed in the middle of the night. Ian buried himself in it, and had ink stains all over his fingers and sketch-board to prove it.

 

Art was something that had always flowed freely from his fingertips; his notebooks as a kid were filled to the margins with illustrations. Spotting them while he procrastinated on homework, his mam had told him once that he came by it naturally -- that while she couldn’t sketch at all, his grannie could. And then, his mam had gestured to a painting in the kitchen, the family room, the paintings lining the hallways of his childhood home. His Grannie Ellen had created them.

 

He’d been lured by tattooing because it elevated what he sketched and colored into a living, breathing work of art.Tattoos were not simply a representation of who a person was at their core, it was part of their journey to discover who it is that they are, how they fit into the world and the people around them. They were beautiful and courageous, a way for people to take control and dictate their own narrative.  

 

And Rachel’s tattoo was one of the loveliest he’d had the opportunity to create in a long time.

 

He hadn’t been so attracted to another woman in a long time, and there was a slight pull behind his navel everytime he thought of her.

 

Discarding the sketch, he withdrew his phone from the pocket of his jeans. Opening to his Instagram portfolio, he scrolled through notifications he never checked to find that selfie she’d shoved in his face when she stormed into the shop just a couple days ago. There was a recent like from another user even though the selfie was a couple months old. He clicked on it, and stumbled onto Rachel’s Instagram page.

 

Before he could tell himself not to, he started exploring her profile. It contained snapshots of her life, most of them unremarkable -- a photo of a dashboard as she drove through mountains, a stack of books, a mug of hot coffee. He kept scrolling to see a photo of her with a blonde friend, the light to Rachel’s dark, their arms wrapped around each other in front of a diner. _Reuniting with my girl Dottie_ , the caption read.

 

There was also a photo of Rachel in a bikini on a sunny day, wearing a large sun hat and sitting cross-legged on a beach chair, a large margarita in her hands. The photo left little to the imagination, and she was right, he noted; she didn’t have any tattoos. Not yet, at least.

 

Trying to think of what to say to her, he opened his messages, wanting to DM her. The cursor blinked at him.

 

_Hey_ , he typed, before he lost his nerve.

 

But then— wait... no. He couldn’t come on to her. She was his client, she’d think he’s a scumbag.

 

The screen of his phone darkened as a phone call came in -- his mother.

 

“Mam,” Ian answered, quickly sitting up. Rollo glared at him, and Ian glared back. “Hi.”

 

“Hello,” Jenny Murray replied. “Ye said ye’d call on Friday when we got back. It’s now Sunday. Are ye dead?”

 

Oh, right. His parents had returned from visiting Ian’s siblings and their families, still living in Scotland. “Sorry— it’s been a busy week. I forgot. How was your trip?”

 

“The trip was nice. Yer father is still tired; he hasna risen from his chair since we got back.”

 

“Traveling wears him out, I’m sure,” Ian replied. “How’s his leg?”

 

“It pains him,” she replied with concern, and Ian heard his father remark something indiscernible to Jenny from the background. “If it doesna hurt, why don’t ye get off yer ass?” she quipped back, ultimately ignoring whatever his father said in reply. Her attention back on her son, she sighed. “So, tell me. What’s the news?”

 

“Everything is fine.”

 

“Oh, aye?” He could nearly see the arch of her brow. “Then what’s this I hear that ye’ve heard from Emily?”

 

“I occasionally hear from her, mam,” he reminded her, even though he knew that wasn’t what this was about. He ran a hand through his hair, his mind scanning for a way to avoid discussing this with her, especially not when Digger was still away. She wouldn’t comfort him, he knew, and would instead issue orders on what to do. He understood that’s how she had always been, that’s how she showed she cared, fixing everyone’s problems. But, if not steered properly, Ian knew it would turn into micromanagement and then disappointed judgment in a heartbeat-- he’d been handled by his mother often enough to know.

 

“Mmphm. What’s this I heard about you being sued for custody, then?”

 

“Well, she -- yeah. She did. I am.”

 

“Ye’ll need a lawyer.”

 

“I know.”

 

“Have ye contacted one yet? Don’t use that flop sweat who did yer divorce. Look for someone else.”

 

“That ‘flop sweat’ got me full custody of my son when his mother ran out on him.” There it was, that anger. Whenever it flared, it surprised Ian. Anger at Emily, at what she’d struggled with, how she couldn’t overcome it and make it work for them, for Digger. How she’d left them. The anger motivated him to always do right by his son.

 

He swept a hand through his hair again, mussing it. “Sorry mam,” he said. “Didna mean to snap.”

 

In her typical fashion, his mother trudged forward. “If ye need help, just ask. I know it might get expensive and I don’t want ye short, it could cost ye more than money.”

 

“Mam, I don’t…” he began. But he did. He knew it. Raising a son as a single father on an artist’s income was tough, and they were already stretched thin.

 

“I know,” Jenny replied. “I know.” She sighed again, but this time it was for him. “Well, we’re thinking of having everyone over for dinner, if ye’d like to come with Digger. We have some gifts for the lad and pictures of yer nieces and nephews, if ye’d like to see.”

 

“Today? What time?”

 

“We’re gettin’ together around four.”

 

“Oh, uh.” He cleared his throat. “I can come. It’ll be just me, then.”

 

“What do ye mean just you?”

 

“Digger is with Emily, he won’t be back until the evening. I’ll have to leave early to get him.”

 

Silence on the other end of the line. Then, “Alright. See ye at four. I’m making ham. And Ian?”

 

“Yes?”

 

“I’m sorry that this is happening; that Digger is caught in the middle of it. Hang in there.  Try not to...take it personally. She is his mother, after all.”

 

His chest popped open, and Ian took a deep breath. “Thanks, mam. See ye later.”

 

The call screen fading away, his phone displayed his Instagram DM’s once again.

 

He might _want_ to message Rachel, but he didn’t.

 

* * *

 

Dinner at Jenny’s was a raucous affair, with Mandy throwing a tantrum, screaming that Germain and Jem had hidden her Hot Wheels somewhere. Which of course they had -- they were located in a basket underneath the kitchen sink, when after-dinner dishes were being done. Rollo dug a hole in his mother’s flower garden when left unattended while they ate, which caused Ian to laugh at the muddy snout, only to stop abruptly at the furious look on his mother’s face. And, of course, one of the children knocked a wine glass off the counter, shattering the glass and sending dark red liquid all over the kitchen floor.

 

His mother bent to sop up the mess with a terry towel, Brianna crouched beside her, picking up the glass stem and large, broken pieces, while Ian used the opportunity to escape from the kitchen. Rollo trailed behind and followed him to the back porch, where William and Roger sat in conversation. He nodded to the two of them and seated himself, placing an absent touch placed on Rollo’s head.

 

“How’s it going?” he asked.

 

“Just talking about William gettin’ fired,” Roger responded.

 

“I did not!” William said loudly, “It was merely a...change of career, thrust upon me by the universe when I needed it most.”

 

“Oh aye?” Roger arched a brow. “Thrust upon ye? Don’t ye mean _forced_?”

 

“Absolutely not,” William insisted, though he smiled. “I am trying to be positive, you know.”

 

“What happened?” Ian asked.

 

“Lay offs,” William shrugged. “They’re downsizing. I get a severance package to help with the transition, and they said they might rehire me next year. I read between the lines, however, and they implied I shouldn’t count on it.”

 

“Shouldn’t be too difficult to get a new position, will it?” Ian idly picked at his beer label.

 

“No,” Roger cut in. “Computer programming is a skill needed everywhere. Ye’ll be fine.”

 

“I’m looking forward to the time off,” William continued. “I don’t think I want to stick with it. Everyone said tech would take off, and maybe it has for some people, but I find it a bit….dissatisfying to chase paychecks. I need something else.”

 

Roger raised his eyebrows and shot William a look. “Ye’re speakin’ to an artist and a minister; I think we can sympathize. Welcome to the dark side.”

 

Ian chuckled. “When did this happen?”

 

“Earlier this week. I’m pretending this is a vacation until I figure out something I want to try. It’s been nice to have the time off, honestly. All the more to spend with Rachel.” William’s mouth twitched up at the corners.

 

Ian’s ears pricked at her name and Roger glanced at Ian over his beer, then back to William. Or maybe Ian imagined it.

 

“Rachel?” Roger asked, as if the name was familiar and he couldn’t place it.

 

“A girl of mine from college.” William grinned and turned to Ian. “You met her. What do you think?”

 

Ian blinked in surprise. “She’s...something,” he replied.

 

“I think she’s _wonderful_ ,” William said, then laughed at himself. “We dated once. We’ve been talking more and I think I’d like to give it a go, again. She’s one of the most gorgeous, nicest people I’ve ever met.”

 

“Pretty and nice, what specific compliments,” Ian needled, knowing even as he said it that William wouldn’t bring it up unless he was truly lovesick.

 

William shook his head. “You know what I mean. Besides, I think she came into town to see me. She lives in Cross Creek, about an hour from here, wouldn’t you say? I got a message from her just the other day, asking to meet.”

 

Ian frowned. “I don’t think—“ he began, then interrupted himself.

 

Roger elbowed William, as if struck by a sudden thought. “Wait a minute— Rachel? I think she was here to see Ian and Brianna’s shop. Bree mentioned her to me. And she was that woman you were with when we saw you at the bar the other night, right? Sorry we didn’t say hello to ye then.”

 

“Yes, I mean, that’s fine, but... Ian?” William stared at him. “That’s how you met.”

 

Ian shrugged, reclining in his seat. “She came into the shop asking for a tattoo.”

 

“Rachel doesn’t want a tattoo.”

 

“Ah--I think she does. Why else would she hire me?”

 

William’s mouth fell open. “What—where—does her brother know?”

 

“Tch. No clue.”

 

“Well, what is it?”

 

Ian grimaced, remembering the light in her eyes as she’d said the tattoo was just for her, not for anyone else. Like a secret. He rolled one shoulder. “Artist-client privilege, Willie. Ask her.”

 

William scoffed. “Fine. She’ll tell me.”

 

Ian gave a noncommittal grunt, and was thankful when Roger changed the conversation to other things.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Let me know what you think! I love to hear from you, even just a <3 is mucho appreciated :)


	8. Part 7

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Rachel goes in for her first tattoo appointment

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> lots of hands in the beta pot this round, perhaps an embarrassing amount, but I needed the feedback and support: hubs, monisse, theministerskat, WhiskyNotTea, and AbbyDebeaupre.

Rachel knew nothing about what to expect at her first tattoo appointment. She liked that. She always felt a little scared when she didn’t know what was going to happen next, but with that fear came excitement, the promise of an experience to remember.

She sat in the lounge of the shop, waiting to be called, flipping through an old magazine. A television played in the background, the audio tinny and the closed captioning lagging a few seconds behind.

She heard the dull buzz of tattoo guns and the hum of conversation throughout. A young receptionist was fielding questions from another client at the front desk, something about setting up a piercing appointment.

“Rachel.”

Ian stood in the lounge, gesturing for her to follow him. He gave her a half smile, and maybe she imagined it, but he looked happy to see her again. He was in a dark blue t-shirt today, his hair tucked back in a backward baseball cap. It made the grey wolf tattoo on his neck visible - one she hadn’t noticed before. She flashed him a quick smile and grabbed her purse, leaping up.

In his private studio, she could see the sketch she’d approved earlier that week on top of the cushioned table, centered in the small room.

“This still good?” He picked up the sketch and handed it to her. It was exactly how she wanted it to look - a dove in flight, scrolling text, bold colors, and large floral accents.

In answer, she beamed at him and nodded, happy to see that he smiled back.

“Let’s get started, then,” he said, and handed her an aluminum tin about the size of her fist.

“What do I need a first aid kit for?” she asked upon seeing the tin was filled with gauze and medical tape.

He smiled and patted his chest in answer, tapping on one pectoral and then the other. “It’s for yer chest, to cover yer nipples. Place a few squares over each and tape it.” He was all business. Professional. “I’ll step out while ye take your shirt off and get ready. If ye can, try to only cover the nipple and not much else. It’s best if the gauze and tape doesn’t get in the way. Let me know when ye’re done.” He moved to the door, letting it close behind him.

The studio was a tidy place, with paintings and sketches on the walls, various vulgar bumper stickers, old posters of the Dead Kennedys and the Misfits. It was cluttered, but still retained it’s sense of order -- like someone had taken a doctor’s office and given it a quirky artist’s personality.

She removed her jacket and shirt, dropping them in a pile on the chair, her purse draped over it. It was a bit chilly in the room with the draft from the air conditioner, but she worked quickly, not letting goosebumps deter her from sticking the medical tape against her skin, securing squares of gauze over her nipples.

How strange it felt to open the door a crack and let Ian in, but he gave no indication that this was anything out of the ordinary. It probably wasn’t, Rachel reminded herself. Strange for her, but a regular workday for him.

“Ready?” he asked, brushing past her and shutting the door again. In his hands were a few sheets of paper, and he showed them to her. “I traced yer tattoo to some transfer paper. If ye lie back on the table, we’ll find the position ye want for it, after I shave ye real quick.”

Ian was quick and gentle with a razor, and the transfer paper was a lot like a temporary tattoo one gets as a kid -- the outlines of the design spread in purple ink over a filmy paper. She lay back, and Ian pressed it against her ribs.

“Dinna worry if it doesna line up where ye’d like. This will only give you an idea of the placement. The ink washes off easily and I have others ready to try again.”

“I’m sure it’s fine.”

“Why don’ ye check, just to be sure.”

She sat up while he gestured to a tall, black framed mirror against the wall, and she angled herself in front of it. She studied the temporary lines on her skin, and her heart fluttered with the sight of it.

“I love it,” she breathed.

“Hm,” Ian smirked, though he sounded pleased. “I’m glad. Ye can lie back again.” He’d put on black latex gloves and rolled his work station towards them at the table. Over a folded towel lay sterile needles in packaging, ink bottles, another stack of gauze pads, and two different tattooing guns, both with thick black wires that disappeared into a plug on the wall, and wires that led to foot pedals near Ian’s feet.

“We’ll probably only get the outline done today, depending on how ye do.”

Rachel wrinkled her nose at him. “I’m not afraid of a little pain.”

Ian laughed. He let the gun buzz, once, and then let off the pedal. “Some people are shocked at how much it hurts when they get their first tattoo. Just wanted to make sure you’re ready.”

“Oh, how gentlemanly of you. I’m glad to have such a chivalrous man looking out for me.”

Ian rolled his eyes. “Are you fucking with me?”

Rachel couldn’t help but laugh. “I’ll be perfectly fine. What fun is this if there’s no chance it’ll hurt a little bit?”

Something about her comment made him chuckle, and she set about shifting her hips to a more comfortable position, pulling her hair out from under her shoulders as she adjusted her body weight, maybe a little too insistently. His chair was set high, positioning him above her, and she swore she saw his eyes flick up and down her body to watch. A thrill shot through her at the glance.

He tapped her arm, asking her to lift both of them above her head.

“Ready?” he asked, again. “I know you said you’ll be fine, but ye tell me if it’s too much, and we’ll take a break. Try not to flinch.”

He braced one hand on her left ribs and brought the gun down with the other, the machine whirring in his hand, and Rachel hissed and nearly jumped out of her skin at the first contact. Needles, very tiny needles, scraping the surface of her skin-- how had she never realized how sensitive the flesh on her ribs was?

But the gun withdrew immediately, and Rachel opened her eyes to see Ian staring down at her.

“I said try not to flinch,” he said, laughter dancing in his eyes.

“Ow.” She huffed a laugh. “That does hurt.”

His face broke into a grin. “I barely touched ye.” His foot went down on the pedal, and the machine whirred angrily again. “Okay? Let’s go.”

She nodded and braced herself firmly this time, her hands clenched in fists.

Ian was quiet while he worked. The latex gloves were soft and warm as his fingers pressed into her skin, and depending on how he leaned over her, she could feel his breath. She tried to tell herself the goosebumps were the fault of the room’s temperature, and not the man touching her.

“Ye okay, Rachel?” he asked at one point, his eyes only flicking to hers briefly before darting back to the design he etched.

“Yeah. Doing better.”

He chuckled. “That’s good.”

“What are those?” she asked, using her nose to point at the paintings on the wall, trying to distract herself. There were small canvases of bright colors, a bit chaotic, but clear in the scenes they were depicting. Perhaps the most striking was the one of an iguana on a rock, sunbathing. The colors seemed to blur into each other, in an almost impressionist style.

“I paint when I have time.” If he hadn’t been busy tattooing, he might have shrugged.

“You paint reptiles?” she asked, picking up on a theme as she glanced around.

“No-- yes. Yeah, I guess. My son likes them.”

Oh. Her stomach dropped. “Your son?”

“He likes lizards, so I paint them for him.” Needles scratched under her right breast. “He likes them to look realistic, like photographs. The ones that don’t pass his scrutiny, I hang here.”

“You’re kidding,” Rachel laughed, surprised, and Ian gracefully withdrew the needles.

“I am absolutely not kidding,” he said, seeing her face, “My child believes himself to be quite the art critic. I took creative license once with an iguana, and he never let me live it down.”

“So why are there so many rejects?” she asked. There must be five or six in total.

He shrugged. “I like when he tells me why he doesn’t like a painting or a drawing, so I paint them a way he dislikes on purpose sometimes. Gets him talking. Sometimes he picks up a lizard fact -- Da, a garden snake can never be purple because birds would be able to see it; Da, a komodo dragon doesn’t belong in water like a frog -- or sometimes it’s just a taste preference. He thinks Van Gogh is overrated -- too squiggly. Botticelli, though, he really likes.”

“Very sophisticated tastes,” she laughed. “What’s your son’s name?”

“Digger.”

“Digger? That’s an unusual name.”

“Hm. Is it?” he asked, clearly having caught on to her incredulity. “It’s a nickname.”

“Nickname for what?”

He smiled, as if to himself. “Family secret.”

“Well, you’re no fun,” she said playfully. “So. How old is he?” The gun whirred and dug over a particularly sensitive spot, but Rachel ignored it.

“Six, almost seven. His birthday is coming up.”

Ian didn’t look that old, maybe early thirties. A young father, then. Was he married?

Her eyes flicked down to where she might see a ring, but the black gloves showed nothing, not even an outline. Still, she probed, “What about his mom? Does she like your reptile paintings as much as Digger does?”

His face hardened. “She’s not really around much.”

“Oh,” she remarked, “Sorry,” because she wasn’t sure what else to say.

Ian shrugged again, this time with one shoulder, briefly withdrawing the gun from its lines on her skin before grabbing gauze to blot blood away from between her breasts. “No big deal, it’s been a while.”

“Can I ask what happened?”

“We grew apart.” His face remained unreadable. So it’s like that, is it?

“So you raise Digger on your own, then?” she asked.

He nodded, leaning close to her abdomen and concentrating. She tried not to twitch as he seemed to go over the same spot a few times, embellishing with detail.

“Your paintings don’t look anything like your tattoo work,” she observed as he sat up again, still focused, but less intently. She wanted to keep talking to him, and sensed that he wanted to talk to her, too.

“I guess that’s intentional.” He glanced around him. “Something different for my brain to do.”

“It’s… freer, than your tattoo work. In a way. Despite what Digger might say, I really like it.”

Flattered, he smiled at her, sending butterflies through her stomach, so near where his hands worked.

“Well, thanks,” he said. “Maybe I’ll paint ye a reptile sometime.”

“I’d appreciate that.”

She closed her eyes and lay as still as she could, listening to the buzz of the little machine in his hands and feeling the lines being drawn into her, the occasional soft brush of gauze as he wiped away blood or extra ink that was getting in his way.

His fingers brushed against the underside of her breasts, the corner of a gauze square tickling her, and she suppressed a shiver.

“I’m about done,” he said. “Just let me take a look.” The machine went quiet.

She nodded, watching his face as he stared at her torso.

Ian turned away only briefly to set something down. “Your turn. Ye can go ahead and sit up.”

Groaning, she sat up, her back straight as she looked in the mirror. Wow. “This is incredible,” she breathed, and gave him a bright smile of gratitude. “It’s amazing, thank you.” I walk beside thee was scrawled out in ribbons along gorgeous dove wings, spread below her breasts, just as she’d imagined. As she’d known it would be.

He grinned back and inclined his head towards her. “We’re not finished yet. But see here?” He pointed to the swollen red spots along the black lines, his finger nearly touching her. “Ye need a break, to let this heal. The tattoo will come out distorted if I continue. You handled the pain well, but yer skin is sensitive. I’d like to have done more shading, but this will do for now,” he concluded, as if to himself.

He opened a drawer and withdrew a balm, plastic cling wrap, and more medical tape. “Lie back one last time while I bandage ye.”

The ointment was incredibly soothing against her ravaged skin as he applied it. He placed plastic cling wrap over her tattoo and ripped the roll of medical tape with his teeth, sticking it to her and securing the plastic. He told her how it would prevent infection, how she must use the ointment everytime she changed the bandage. That she should keep the tattoo from open air for at least a week. That she should not go swimming, get into a hot tub, or even take a bath for a couple months. That she should not wear a bra with underwire while she’s healing or she’d risk wearing away the ink. Showers were fine, and she should expect it to peel and sting like a sunburn as it healed, but absolutely no scratching no matter how much it itches.

He explained how this would repeat with each appointment they needed -- that he would color in and fully shade her tattoo next round, but considering how much she’d swollen this time, it might take a third appointment.

Honestly, Rachel couldn’t wait for the next appointment. She liked Ian. He was easy going, funny, sweet. And then there was an edge to him that she adored, that she wanted to curl up against and explore.

“That’s fine,” she said in response, tugging the hem of her shirt down to her hips. While he spoke, she’d thrown her shirt over her head and reached up underneath to remove the gauze from over her nipples, wincing at the peel of tape, and discarded them in the small trash can where his black gloves had disappeared.

“I guess it was a wise choice not wearing a bra today,” she said, continuing to fidget with her shirt.

“I guess so,” Ian replied, his eyes instinctively traveling across her chest. The corners of her mouth twitched upwards at the hint of a flush to his cheeks.

“So,” she drawled, trying to remain casual. “What are you doing after this?” She shook her hair out from under her jacket.

He eyed her carefully. “I don’t date clients.”

Her eyebrows shot up, but she shrugged. “Who said anything about dating?”

“You just asked me out.”

“Did I?”

He leaned back in his chair, amused. “Ye just asked me what I was doing after this.”

A game? Fine. “Mm-hm. Are we supposed to deny that we’re attracted to each other?”

Ian stared at her, lost for words, and let out a faint laugh. “What are you asking, exactly?”

Rachel clicked her tongue. “Men can be so dense sometimes. I’m going to Mac’s Bar after this. Just there.” She pointed to the wall, where the bar was on the other side of the street outside. “I’m going to have a few drinks. When you’re done here, you should join me.”

Almost immediately, he nodded. “Okay, yeah, I can do that.”

She smiled as he stood to show her out the door of his studio, but she stopped him with a hand to his chest. He froze, and they stood together, feeling each other out. She touched his face when she sensed his openness, and pulled him down to her, stealing a quick kiss.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As always, please comment and let me know what you think! I love reading comments and even a <3 is greatly appreciated. I'm loving this story, I hope you are too!


	9. Part 8

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Rachel and Ian hook up, Emily returns Digger to Ian and has a request

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> betas theministerskat and WhiskyNotTea

Rachel trailed her fingertips along the frost of her beer mug, brushed her thumb through the salt along the rim. Tasted it. She tried not to glance over her shoulder at the door every time it opened, but couldn't help herself.

 

She hadn’t hooked up with anyone in…she tried to think. Too long. And now, without warning, she suddenly needed it, a release of built-up tension. She crossed her legs beneath the lip of the bar, unsure why the desire for release lingered, as intense as it had been when she looked at Ian, when she was touched by him. She wasn’t sure what had come over her in his studio when she’d asked him to come here. Maybe it was the small current of electricity between them, bringing the dormant tension alive.

 

She had one drink, then two. Butterflies fluttered in her stomach, and time seemed to slow down. And still, he hadn’t come.

 

On her third beer, Rachel eventually took to exchanging a flirtatious smile with the bartender. While her need might purr for Ian, he was very late, and she began to wonder if someone like this guy might wake the same tension in her. Or maybe someone else, she thought, as she stretched and scanned the room. Someone might as well benefit from her sudden wildness, strengthening by the second with the booze that helped loosen the usual grip she kept on herself, and she was going to make damn sure, at the very least, that it was going to be her.

 

Then she heard a, "Is this seat taken?"

 

She whipped her head around, and Ian was leaning on the bar, looking for all the world like the most beautiful man she'd ever seen.

 

“You’re late,” she taunted, spinning towards him and bouncing a toe against his shin.

 

He gave her a half smile. “Ye weren’t my last client. I had another appointment, after ye.”

 

“Oh. _Oh_. What was it?”

 

“Bah, nothing interesting, just some cross on a wrist for a college girl. Those damn things pay the bills, though. They take literally a _second_ \-- I mean, it’s two lines -- and I get to bill them for it. And get tips. Easiest gig, ever.”

 

She snorted into her beer, relieved he was there, and indiscreetly watched as he sat near her.

 

“Goin’ alright?” he asked her.

 

“Yeah,” she smiled at him, continuing to watch as he adjusted his hat and ordered an IPA.

 

“Do you usually meet women for drinks?” she blurted.

 

“Not usually.”

 

“No?” She reached out and placed a hand on his forearm, walking her fingertips down to the inside of his wrist. He let her. At some point since she’d last seen him, he’d thrown a sweater on to stave off the nighttime chill, and to her disappointment, it covered his tattoos. But his arm was firm, and warm beneath the dark knitted weave. "Don't get out much, do you, Ian?" she teased.

 

He chuckled. "Mostly just work and home."

 

"Right. Digger."

 

"My wee Digs."

 

"Do you have a picture of him? I’d like to see."

 

“I do.” Ian withdrew his phone from his pocket, scrolling through a gallery that looked to be filled mostly with images of a child, a dog, and plants, but he was going too quickly for Rachel's eyes to lock clearly onto any single image.

 

"Is that your dog?" she asked at a natural pause in his scrolling. Rachel leaned towards him, her hair brushing over his shoulder as her palm braced against his knee. She felt an eagerness to get the evening moving, especially now that he was here, that she could place her hands on him, feel that electric wave pulse between them.

 

Ian laughed. "Yep. That’s Rollo, upside down in the mud. He's ridiculous."

 

"Rollo," she said to herself, committing the name to memory. A wolf-like creature, large and intimidating, even while wearing an impossibly goofy expression.

 

"Okay, here, this is a good one." He shifted and leaned even closer to her, his body warm and open, and she moved into him, sliding off of her own stool and standing as near to him as she could. "This is Digger."

 

He presented his phone to her, allowing her to hold it, and waited for her reaction. She scanned the screen, unable to keep from grinning widely at it. A dark haired boy, with dark eyes and olive skin, stood in a pair of shark patterned swim trunks in a sunny yard, a plastic blue kiddie pool behind him. He was soaking wet, and laughing, holding a garden hose against his belly.

 

"He looks just like you!" she exclaimed.

 

"You think so?" Ian took the phone from her and peered at it.

 

"Sure he does, look." She leaned in again, nearly brushing her cheek against his as she pointed at the glowing screen. "Here. In the shape of his eyebrows, his'll look like yours when he grows up. And his nose, just a bit crooked at the bridge, and the shape of his eyes. His coloring is a bit darker, maybe, but I look at him, and I know he's yours. Clear as day."

 

"Yeah?" He turned to look at her, their faces close. She didn't step back, but squeezed his thigh. He smelled of ink from the shop, a tang of men's deodorant, maybe sweat, and...

 

Ian pulled back. "What --"

 

"Kid's shampoo," she announced, standing to her full height. Even with him seated on a bar stool, he was still taller than her.

 

"What?"

 

She cracked a smile at his expression. He knew exactly what she was about to say. "You smell like bubblegum."

 

He rolled his eyes at her. "Yes. Welcome to parenthood, where a man can’t even retain the dignity of smelling like a man when he’s out with a woman."

 

“To be fair, I don’t think you knew you would be out with a woman tonight.” Rachel poked him in the cheek, and he caught her hand as she began to draw away, pulling her towards him instead.

 

“I didna realize you would be close enough to smell me, no.” He passed a quick, light thumb under her breasts, skimming along her new tattoo. They felt heavy, and suddenly ached, and then his touch vanished.

 

“Here,” she said, lifting her wrist up to him, “I smell a little better than bubblegum.”

 

He took her wrist and brought it to his nose. "Ginger? Oranges? Christ, ye smell like a candle," he said, his tone playful.

 

“Better than bubblegum, at least,” she teased, giggling.

 

He leaned in, his lips close to hers. “Definitely better.”

 

His free hand wrapped around her and splayed possessively against the small of her back, pressing her into his chest. She felt a teasing brush of his fingertips along the waistline of the back of her jeans, touching the sensitive skin there just so, and a kiss so soft against her mouth that she might have imagined it.

 

Her breath hitched, and she felt the heat rise to her cheeks. She playfully shoved him away, if only to change the game, to tuck a lock of hair behind his ear and smooth it beneath his cap. She cupped his face and kissed him again, bolder now that she took the initiative. His palm snaked up her thigh, a predictable move made by guys in crowded bars all the time. She couldn’t help but love it.

 

They didn’t notice the other people in the room, and Rachel was weighing the pros and cons of climbing onto his lap when he pulled away.

 

She let her hands drop, too. “Hey, let’s get out of here.”

 

A second passed as he looked at her, his lids heavy in the dim light of the bar.

 

“That would be good. Let’s go back to my place.”

 

“But, what about Digger?” she asked.

 

“Did ye think I left my six year old home alone all this time?” He cracked a smile. “He’s away for the weekend.”

 

He chuckled and gestured to the bartender to pay. She did the same, but when the bartender presented their checks, he handed the man a credit card and said, “I’ll pay her tab, too.”

 

They jogged across the street to the parking lot of the tattoo shop. The night felt warm, the highway behind them mostly quiet. Rachel leaned on his arm as they looked at the few cars in the lot, a bit unsteady on her feet. Her little Bug, a Jeep, and one other car. He paused.

 

“Um,” she began, trying not to laugh. “I don’t think it’s safe for me to drive. Are you okay driving?”

 

“Yeah, I’m okay. Ye didna drink that much. Did you?”

 

“Nope. Guess I’m a lightweight.”

 

“Tch. Ye still good, though? You… want to?”

 

“More than anything.”  

 

“I can drive ye home if it’s that. Or I can sleep on the couch, and you can have the bed, it’s pretty comfy--”

 

“Shut up.”

 

His lips twitched in amusement and he led her to the blue Jeep. She climbed in, content with how normal it felt. There was discarded fast food litter on the floor near her feet, and he hastily reached down to remove it and throw it in the back. Rachel spotted a child’s car-seat buckled into the back row, scattered french fries around it.

 

“Sorry, it’s a mess,” he said, but she said nothing in response, only patted his forearm after he’d shifted into drive. He must have gotten warm because he’d rolled the sleeves up, and she ran her fingertips over the tattooed patterns on his skin, her mind wandering on the other, covered parts of his body.

 

The drive was simple, easy. She placed a teasing touch to his thigh, and he glanced at her but seemed busy with the road. Looking at him, watching the buildings pass by, she felt a sense of weightlessness. It was how she felt whenever she did something spontaneous, and while the tattoo came with careful thought, she didn’t know she was going to hook up with Ian until she said it in the tattoo parlor. Sitting in that car, her hand roaming over his thigh, she felt liberated. Free.

 

As they pulled into the driveway, Rachel scanned over his modest bungalow home, nestled amongst the neighborhood. They got out and he led her through a side door and into the kitchen, the screen door clamoring shut behind her.

 

As they took off their shoes, the sound of a bark greeted them, followed by the click of nails on linoleum as a large dog ran into the kitchen.

 

“Rollo, hush,” Ian said, rapping the dog affectionately on the nose, then stooped to scratch him between the ears and beneath the chin.

 

But the dog’s yellow eyes slid past Ian to Rachel, assessing her. He stalked forward, his tail wagging in a way to indicate cautious interest.

 

“He’s even wilder looking in person,” Rachel said, crouching and offering Rollo a hand to sniff. He was older than he looked in the photo she’d seen, with silver around the grey-black muzzle, and she found herself curious how many years Rollo and Ian had spent together, especially considering the silent conversation dog and man seemed to be having in front of her.

 

 _Who is this?_ Rollo seemed to ask.

 

Ian seemed to reply back, _Don’t worry about it._

 

She stood. “Whatever you two have going on, it’s supernatural.”

 

“Huh?”

 

But she only shook her head. “Nice place.”

 

The home was delightfully lived in, with clutter on the counters and dishes in the sink, plenty of evidence of a young child and an adult who loved him. She moved into the dining room, spying broken crayons beneath chairs, a minefield of Legos and small toys in front of the television in the adjoining living room, and piles of laundry in a basket on the couch.

 

“You’re being sarcastic,” he said, following her.

 

“Mm. I’m not, actually. It’s a home.” Her fingers lingered on the back of a dining room chair. “Like a real one.”

 

“What do you mean by that?”

 

She shook her head, smiling. “Nothing. C’mere.” She looked at him from across the counter separating the two rooms, where he stood under the kitchen light. Anticipation swirled between them, delicious and smooth. She was certain he felt it, too.

 

“Well,” she coaxed, when he didn’t move.

 

She jerked her head in a way he knew meant _get over here._ He laughed and shook his head, embracing her with a strength that jolted through her when his mouth claimed hers. He kissed her, and this time he made it clear he didn’t intend to stop. His hands roved all over, feeling her curves and waist, tangling in her hair.

 

He began to back her towards the stairs.

 

Fast. He worked fast. Or at least he planned to.

 

That was fine by her, especially when every touch of his mouth, his hands, the press of his body, seemed to wind her up.

 

He pushed her jacket down from her shoulders. “Off,” he groaned into her mouth when it caught on her elbow, causing her to laugh into him.

 

Rachel decided to help and stripped herself out of the leather, dropping the jacket onto the couch. “If just a jacket causes you that much frustration, how are you going to handle the rest?”

 

“Ye think I can’t get yer clothes off?”

 

“Well,” she teased.

 

He nearly growled as he closed what little distance stood between them. “Watch.” She felt his hands at the hem of her shirt.

 

But she stepped back, out of his reach, partially stepping on a toy. “As much as I would love to do this on a pile of Legos, how about a bed?”

 

She squealed with laughter as he swept her into his arms, lifting her at her thighs, and ran her up the stairs and into a room to the left.

 

His bedroom was tidier than the rest of the house, as if he didn’t spend much time there, but the bed was big and rumpled, piled with blankets. He dropped her on it, and she landed with a soft whoop. He was out of breath, but he kissed her on the mouth anyway, the touch of his fingers on her hips everything she needed right then. Little currents cascaded across her middle, rippling outward.

 

“I might be out of practice,” he said, allowing her to help him take his sweater and shirt off. His hat fell off with it all. She had started to say that she was, too, but she was stunned speechless by the sight of his bare chest, nearly every inch patterned in some way or another, his skin covered in woodland and mythical creatures, trees, starlight --

 

She marveled at the tattoos, but also the body they decorated. He was lean, muscles rippling beneath as he tossed his shirt to the floor. She ran a hand over his chest, finishing by trailing two fingers over a nipple.

 

He nearly tore her jeans in his hurry to get them off, and she giggled at his haste. He discarded his pants, too, and landed on top of her, pressing her body, in nothing but panties and a t-shirt, into the mattress. Her legs fell open, a small prayer he’d settle between them. He did, but he hovered achingly above her hips. She lifted hers, hoping to grind against him, but he angled away.

 

“Tease,” Rachel said.

 

She hadn’t felt him, hadn’t touched him or explored him at all. She needed to, and she lunged for him, sitting up. She distracted him by claiming his mouth with her own, her tongue brushing against his, her hands fluttering down his stomach to his groin. There. Steadily, she began to work him. He was hot to the touch, and solid, and his breathing started to come faster.

 

He sighed into her mouth, a low sound from his throat accompanying it, and she grinned.

 

“I like it when you moan, Ian.”

 

“I didna moan. I’m only breathin’, a bit.”

 

She covered her laugh by sucking on his lower lip.

 

Careful of her newly bandaged tattoo, he pushed her shirt up and away from her breasts. “I want to see them,” he said.

 

And then he bent to take a nipple in his mouth, and she hissed a breath, her cheeks and chest flushing with heat.

 

She writhed against him, seeking some way to relieve the pressure growing between her legs, but there was still nothing. Frustrated, she grabbed his face and lifted it to hers, her hands seeking the nape of his neck. “Touch me.”

 

He chuckled, the sound of it low and soft, and lowered himself onto her, the weight of him lovely atop her. One of his hands swept between them and drifted southward, entering her panties without preamble, while the other settled itself beside her head, tangling in her mess of hair.

 

She gasped at the single brush of his thumb against her, right where she wanted him. God, she was so slippery and needy. His other fingers traveled back further. She opened her legs, almost glaring at his hand as she lifted her head to watch him.

 

She whimpered, and he began to circle her with his thumb, then up, then down, then again -- and then one finger, then two, pressing in -- she bucked her hips against him.

 

She squeezed her eyes shut, intent on how the pressure built, the tension rose -- she could ride his hand all night and be utterly satisfied to do so. He sucked on her neck. So, so satisfied -- she was there, almost there...

 

And then his fingers twitched a bit, spreading inside her, and she jerked.

 

“ _Ah_ ,” the sound was strangled with pleasure, and he gave a smug grunt.

 

He lay on top of her completely, their hips finally aligning, notching together. “I like it when ye moan, Rachel,” he said, his breath hot against her shoulder, the weight of him warm and comforting, and she fought to get ahold of her own breathing, to come up with some quippy reply.

 

But she couldn’t speak if she tried; he’d removed their undergarments in one swift movement, put on a condom, and he now prodded against her. And he pushed in, all the way, eliciting yet another strangled sound from her. She clutched at his shoulders, her teeth sinking into the skin with a bite. He was still, trembling within her for just a moment, as if to adjust.

 

Then he kissed her, and began to move.

 

___

 

It was as if a storm had swept through in the night. Time swirled and raced, moving so quickly it was unable to be pinned down, and still it moved slowly. In the morning was when time felt the strangest, as if it too had a hangover.

 

Taking Rachel to bed had been a selfish, impulsive act, but Christ, Ian had needed it. He didn’t know anything about her, only that she needed it, too. And he didn’t regret it. He didn’t think he did, at least. Not yet.

 

No, that coil in his belly was shame, more than anything. Shame that it felt good, that he liked having her next to him when they finally fell asleep.

 

When he awoke, he found her gone. That didn’t surprise him. He wouldn’t have stayed, if the roles were reversed. But she hadn’t left a note, hadn’t texted, hadn’t woken him… when had she left?

 

It was the uncertainty that ate away at him, the sense of loss of control, no matter how little. He kicked himself for feeling it, because he had known what this was going to be, but now that he was on the other side of it, he thought about all that was ahead of him and felt exhausted. Somehow, he felt worse than before. Had the brief distraction been worth it?

 

When, later in the day, Emily’s truck rolled into the driveway, Ian waited for her in the yard, Rollo seated by his side. Jeremy had driven and stayed behind the wheel, nodding to Ian as Emily climbed out to help Digger out of his carseat and grab his bag. Ian waved in greeting and grabbed the dinosaur backpack from the back of the suburban. This was their routine now, on the weekends. Because Ian was letting Emily have as much weekend time as she wanted. Hoping that would help soothe the imminent hurt, or maybe help dull Ian’s senses for the future.

 

“How was he this weekend?” Ian asked, but there was no need. Digger was craning his neck to see his Da out over the back row of seats, a big grin on his face, his remaining baby teeth flashing white.

 

“Da! We went to the aquarium! I touched a turtle!”

 

“Hi, Digs.” Pure joy flooded his heart at seeing his son again, at having his son home.

 

“He was great,” Emily said, opening the car door for her son. “A regular angel, of course.” Holding Digger’s hand, she scanned Ian, and he her. Her hair was shorter, straighter, shinier than he remembered.

 

“Has he eaten dinner yet?”

 

“Yes. We had chicken nuggets before we left the house.”

 

Ian nodded, looped a hand through a strap of the backpack, and gestured to Digger.

 

“How was your weekend, Ian?” Emily asked, stalling for something.  

 

“Busy,” Ian said noncommittally, reaching for Digger’s hand.  

 

“I’d love to get coffee some time,” she said, and he knew it was an effort for her to ask.

 

He frowned at her, hoping Digger didn’t catch the tension that swelled between them. Emily seemed hellbent on pretending not to notice. “Coffee,” he repeated, blandly.

 

“Just coffee. To talk things through. Maybe we can settle things that way. I… hope we can.”

 

Digger’s hand, which was so much smaller in his, swung theirs together merrily. Ian’s face didn’t match, but he nodded. “Sure. When?”

 

“Soon, I’ll call you.”

 

Ian lifted Digger into his arms, grunting a bit at the effort. Not caring that Digger was too old and too big to be carried. Digger wrapped his arms around his father’s neck.

 

“Thanks for caring for Digger this weekend,” Ian said to Emily, and he could tell the gratitude surprised her by the way she avoided his gaze, looking past him. “Say bye to yer mam, Digs.”

 

“Bye.” Digger leaned forward to give Emily a hug, briefly bringing Ian and Emily together. Her hair was silky against his cheek, brushing against him for the briefest of moments. Ian pulled away when Digger was done, cleared his throat, and shifted on his feet. He slung Digger’s dinosaur backpack over his shoulder.

 

“Let me know when you want to get that coffee,” he said to her, and disappeared into the house.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for reading! As always, please comment and let me know what you think. All of my readers are appreciated! And you can find me on my tumblr at ianmuyrray.tumblr.com if you're not there already! xo


	10. Part 9

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> While Ian Sr. and Jenny babysit Digs, Ian and Emily meet for coffee. Emily wants to see if they can settle this thing out of court.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> beta AbbyDebeaupre. 
> 
> also my husband betas everything I write but he doesn't have an account so I can't credit him really anywhere, he's just a given.
> 
> TW: mentions of suicide ideation in the middle.  
> Instructions to skip this: Go from "She closed her eyes, her lashes dark against her cheeks. “You remember what it was like. How bad it was.”" Skip 2 paragraphs. And you'll miss it.

His parents had arrived early to watch Digger. They both stood in the entryway of Ian’s home, his father briefly clasping Ian on the shoulder while Jenny stooped to give her grandson a hug. Ian hovered, ready to leave, wanting to avoid parental scrutiny, his keys already in hand.

 

“Don’t ye agree to anythin’ today,” Jenny said, her tone light in front of Digger, though her gaze was sharp and her mouth tight. “You come straight home the minute she backs ye into a corner, and we’ll fix it.”

 

Ian gritted his teeth. “Mam, let me take care of it.”

 

Jenny tutted as she brushed past him, making her way into the house. “Hurry back, then.” Digger was on her heels, already asking for snacks. Ian patted the boy’s head as he passed, muttering a goodbye, but he might as well have been invisible now that Grannie Janet was there.

 

The elder Ian hung back, studying his son a bit before scratching his head. “Don’t let yer mam get to ye,” he said. “She’s worrit out of her mind for ye. Gets worse by the day. The fact that yer meeting Emily for coffee this evenin’ has her rattled.”

 

Voices from the kitchen drifted to them, first Jenny, followed by laughter from Digs.

 

Ian’s shoulders dropped. “It can’t be that bad, right? It’s only Em. Why would she-- she won’t… interfere so much. Would she?”

 

Eyes soft, his father leaned towards him. “Never underestimate what a mother will do to be with her child. She kens ye love him, that ye’ve cared for him. She’s trusted ye to do so. And she can see ye’ve done a fine job. The boy is smart and crafty, just like you. That will never go away.”

 

“But what are ye sayin’, Da?”

 

His father paused, searching for the right way to say what he knew to be true. “Emily wants a turn at parenting Digger. It’s her right--and she’ll likely get it. Ye need to decide the best way to go for yer son, fight her or work wi’ her, but either way, ye ken things will change.”

 

* * *

 

Ian hated the coffee shop. He was surrounded by orange walls, brown carpets, purple tables. It was a chain, with a coffee roast so bland it hardly tasted like anything.  

 

But he didn’t drink his coffee at all. It sat before him in its paper cup, getting cold, the plastic lid upside down on the table beside it. He twirled the cardboard sleeve around the cup, staring blankly at the text on the page, pretending to follow along while listening to Emily ramble on, explaining the piece of paper before them.

 

Uncomfortable with his stillness, Emily was restless and fidgety, her hands shaking as she pointed to paragraphs on the order she’d written in conference with her lawyer.

 

Ian saw the words at the top of the document: Joint Stipulation. She and her lawyer had already signed it. If Ian agreed, it would be filed with the court, and entered as an order by the judge soon after.  

 

“So, I’ll have Digger the majority of the time, but you’ll get every other weekend with him. And we’ll alternate holidays, just like our current court order says. Like, one year I get Memorial Day, and next year you get Memorial Day. But I’ve added in extra time for you and Digger. I know Easter is coming up, and that’s a bigger deal for your family than mine, so I made sure you get every Easter with him, see here?” She pointed to one of the clauses on the page, her finger trembling just a bit.

 

“And I’ve kept the usual 7pm drop off and pick up time. That works fine, for Fridays and Sundays, too, right? I’m happy to pick him up and drop him off.”

 

Ian didn’t respond, only continued to twirl the sleeve of his paper cup.

 

She blew out a breath. “What I wasn’t sure about was Christmas. Usually, one parent gets Christmas Eve and the other gets Christmas Day, those don’t alternate each year. I hope you don’t mind, but I thought it might be nice for Digger to spend Christmas Day with my family, so I’ve written that into the order. Christmas Eve dinner with your mother was always very nice.”

 

When Ian remained silent, Emily cleared her throat and turned the page.

 

“Um, the school district Jeremy and I live in is really highly rated, and it’s not far from where you are, it shouldn’t be any trouble at all for you to get to. Only a twenty-minute drive or so, and all highway, I mapped it. You’re welcome to come see our neighborhood and meet his teacher. And I’ve already met with the school to talk about the enrollment process for next year. I haven’t transferred his school records _yet_ ,” she said hurriedly, responding to Ian’s tilt of the head, “I just wanted to get some things straight, to be prepared. And you’ll need to call the school to add your name as a contact, that way you will get copies of his school schedule, so you’ll know when all the functions and parent-teacher conferences are. You’re welcome to come to them, of course. I’m sure Digger would want you there. I would never stop you.”

 

Still, Ian said nothing. Emily bit her lip.

 

“I mean, if you want to, I can even give you a tour of our house, so you can see where we live. It’s nice. Jeremy takes care of me, I know he cares for Digger. We have a couple of cats. I can show you Digger’s room. We’ve let him decorate it. It’s all… dinosaurs and reptiles and sometimes even these weird, creepy, deep-water fish.” She laughed. “Anything with scales, I swear. Even better if there are claws.”

 

His cup sleeve coming to a stop, Ian narrowed his eyes at her. “I know what Digger likes.”

 

“No I-- I know you know that. I didn’t mean to insinuate that you didn’t. _I_ didn’t know that. That’s something I’m working hard to fix.”

 

“Why now?” he asked, his hands spreading out over the table. “Why are you doing this now?”

 

She crossed her arms over her chest. She was unable -- or unwilling -- to be too open, too vulnerable with Ian. There had always been a wall between them, even when they were married. And that wall was always Digger.

 

He waited, but still, she said nothing.

 

Ian sighed and pressed his fingers to his eyes. He opened his mouth to say he was going to need to talk to his lawyer before signing anything, but then she surprised him by leaning towards him and extending a hand.

 

Not to take his, but a gesture of goodwill, of honesty. Her slender fingers spread towards his on the tabletop.

 

“I haven’t been around, to see the things I should have,” she said. “I’ve missed things, with Digger. But… it wasn’t my choice. I hope you know that. I couldn’t have been there, even if I’d wanted to, for him. And I wanted to. But I couldn’t.”

 

She closed her eyes, her lashes dark against her cheeks. “You remember what it was like. How bad it was.”

 

He remembered her inability to touch Digger as she neared her miscarriage. Constant panic-induced episodes about her self-worth. The monstrous things she said about Digger, Ian, herself.

 

He remembered constantly being frightened that she would harm herself, never sleeping because of it, needing to always stand guard over everyone. Remembered the call from her therapist confirming his fears. The horror of flushing sleeping pills down the drain, throwing all of their sharp knives into the dumpster down the street.

 

The numbness and pain of trying to be normal as they attempted to heal, trying to uphold their wedding vows. The constant failure of it.

 

And then... the sense of complete weightlessness, of utter relief, when she filed for divorce, when he won primary custody of Digger. The moment they stood in the cold, on the steps of the courthouse after their case was over, to cobble together some sort of sullen goodbye, and Emily said she was leaving town.

 

Ian stiffened. “What yer asking me to give up is… a lot. It’s too much. I’m not signing this.”

 

She frowned. “I know it’s a lot. But this really is the best thing for Digger. Try to think of him.”

 

His knuckles rapped, once, against the tabletop. “Best for Digs, or best for you?”

 

“I’m his mother.”

 

Ian clenched his jaw. “I’m his father.”

 

“I can give him more opportunities.”

 

“More opportunities? What’s that supposed to mean?”

 

“Better schools, a better life. A better neighborhood, where he can grow up near kids his age.”

 

The Emily who sat across from him was not the woman who had packed her things and left them five years ago, the woman who could barely brush her hair or eat. She was polished, with  her black hair, so similar in color as Digger’s, its waves pressed out and neatly styled, her clothes expensive and properly fitted. Her wedding ring was large, much larger than anything Ian had given her when he was younger, much more expensive than anything he could afford to give anyone now.

 

“Yeah, what could a measly tattoo artist ever have to offer a child?”

 

“Ian,” Emily rebuked, her shock evident on her face. “That’s not what this is about at all. I’m not saying that you have nothing to offer him. I’ve gotten my feet under me, I’ve established a life, and now I have something I can give Digger. It’s important to me that I do that. I don’t think I could live with myself if I didn’t.”

 

Ian’s face hardened. “No. I’m not going to give ye what ye’re asking for. I get that ye want to do right by Digger, now that ye can. But I won’t allow this. I’m not going to become a weekend dad just because ye have money now.”

 

Emily’s eyes went wide, and he felt like she was going to pounce at him. “It’s not _you_ allowing me anything. I get that you’re insecure about your relationship with Digger changing, but I have rights.”

 

“Ye do. It’s about time ye used ‘em. But I won’t give ye anythin’ more than equal to me.” He lifted a shoulder, almost as if to give her the impression he was unaffected. “What makes ye think yer entitled to more?”

 

“I need it.”

 

He leaned forward. “Sorry?”

 

“I... need to make up for failing him.”

 

He laughed, cruelly, unable to control it any longer. “I’m not signing this.” He folded his copy of the joint stipulation in half in his hands. “Our arrangement as it stands is just fine. I mean, as I see it, stability is best for Digger. He doesn’t need change. I already see him struggling to focus at school, havin’ ye upset his routine.”

 

Emily recoiled. “What? What do you mean?”

 

“His spelling has gone down.”

 

She threw up her hands, defensive. “That-- that can’t possibly be related.”

 

“It might be. He’s a strong reader. Ye come into our lives and upset everything, ye can’t expect it to not have some effects. How do ye think changin’ everything will affect ‘im?”

 

She shook her head. “Ian, this is ridiculous. If he’s having trouble at school, that’s something that I can _help_ him with. _Let_ me. And with better teachers, he might--”

 

“I’ve been letting ye see him much more than ye should, all things considered. That stops. We’re following our previous order exactly from now on.”

 

“Fine.”

 

They stared at each other.

 

“I’ll fight you for him,” she said.

 

He leaned back in his chair. “Give it a shot. I have five years of evidence of you not asserting any of your parental rights. Not using any of your visitation time. You’re practically a stranger to yer own son. And ye know it.” He was flying by the seat of his pants, vague threats that may or may not hold water, but that didn’t matter to him.

 

Emily was seething, but kept her composure. “I was unrepresented in our divorce, and you weren’t. Our child custody order will be thrown out. Everything will open up again, and this time I’ll have a fair shot.”

 

“Ye didn’t want a fair shot before. Ye gave up.”

 

“That’s not how it was, Ian. Take it back.”

 

“No,” he said through gritted teeth. It wasn’t, but it felt good to say.

 

“If we’re awful to each other, it’s Digger that suffers.” She bit her lip. “Can we try to make this as easy as possible?”

 

“Easy?” He gripped the joint order she had prepared with her lawyer, that she hadn’t run past him beforehand or even warned him about. He folded it again. “Ye know what, Em? I always made everything easy for ye. But I’m done with that. Digger isna something ye can put down and pick up again when ye feel like it.  If ye really want to make it up to him, ye can start by following the existing order. If ye can do that much, then I’ll consider giving ye half. But I’ll not -- not even for one second -- consider what you have here. File whatever ye want with the court and I’ll see you there. Actually -- I believe next weekend is yer weekend? I’ll see ye Friday.” He stood.

 

She mirrored him, following him out of the coffee shop. “Okay, I won’t lie to you. I figured it would end this way.”

 

“Great. Glad we did this then.” Ian shot her a look, wanting to get out of the cheap coffee house as fast as he could. But Emily didn’t seem to read his signals at all.

 

Outside, he popped his collar against the wind and placed his hands in his jacket pockets, the black leather of it causing Rachel to briefly cross his mind. His hand crumpled the folded order in his fist. Emily looked exhausted, bouncing on the balls of her feet, staring at her toes.

 

“I--I just want to be a mom,” she said to him, her eyes watering in the early evening cold. “I haven’t been able to. When Digs is with me -- you… you said I was a stranger to him, and I might be -- but he calls me Momma. Mom. Ma.” She laughed, but more to herself than to Ian. “Depends on if he has food in his mouth, or if he is excited about something. Or if he is upset, or if he is sleepy. This might sound odd to you, but it warms me. Like a small piece of me falls into the exact right place, every time I hear his voice call for me.”

 

Ian knew exactly what she was talking about. She said nothing else, only sniffed, the tip of her nose going red.

 

He sighed. “If ye feel that way, Emily, imagine how I feel,” he offered. “If ye can.”

 

* * *

 

“How’d it go?”

 

Jenny’s natural environment seemed to be the kitchen in any home she was in, and she was in Ian’s when he came in through the back door, drying her hands in a towel, the air smelling of dish detergent and lasagna. Rollo was patrolling the perimeter of the kitchen, sniffing and licking the floor for stray sausage crumbles or parmesan cheese dust. A plate was waiting out for Ian, a lasagna slice still warm on the small island in the middle.

 

Ian pushed the offered plate aside and withdrew the wrinkled joint order from his pocket, handing it to his mother. “It’s not good. She’s basically looking to reverse the current custody order.”

 

His father groaned as he pushed himself up from the living room floor where he was playing with Digger, leaving the kid to his toys, and joined them. Jenny dropped the towel and unfolded the paper, his father leaning his head towards hers to read.

 

“Did ye sign it?” he asked.

 

“No! Christ.”

 

Digger ran in from the living room, following his grandfather. “Da!”

 

Ian beamed. “Digs.”

 

Digger hugged Ian around the hips, already dressed in his pajamas, and Ian brushed the black hair back from his forehead, smiling. The hair was soft and damp, as if he had had a bath.

 

“Papa Ian said you went to see Momma.”

 

“I did.”

 

Digger swayed, leaning his head far back and smiling up. “Why couldn’t I go?”

 

“Because Grannie and Papa wanted to see ye.”

 

“But Momma!”

 

“Momma wanted to see ye, too, but we have to share sometimes. Besides, it was boring. Ye don’ like coffee, do ye?”

 

“Eugh, _no_!”

 

“See? Lots more fun playing trains with Papa.”

 

“We didn’t play trains the whole time, only after dinner,” Digger replied.

 

“Ian?” came Jenny’s voice. “What are ye going to do about this?” She tapped the paper.

 

“I told her everything was fine as it was. We dinna need a change.” He could feel Digger listening to them, trying to puzzle out what was going on, so he chose his words with care.  

 

“Good,” Jenny agreed. “Stability is important for you two.”

 

“She’s planning to fight me, said she’s prepared to take me to court over it.”

 

His father pulled his reading glasses out from his chest pocket and placed them on his nose, taking the paper from Jenny, who passed it to him easily.

 

Jenny snorted. “Let her. I’m not sure what good she thinks will come of it after disappearing like that.”

 

“Ma? This is about Momma?” Digger still clung to Ian’s hips. Jenny’s eyes flicked to Ian’s over the island. He broke the stare and turned to his son.

 

“Yes, Digs.”

 

“Is it bad?”   

 

“No. Not bad.”

 

“Is it scary?”

 

Ian swiped a thumb over the boy’s cheek. “No, definitely not scary.”

 

“This is very official,” his father said, and Ian turned his attention back to him. “Intimidating. Ye need an attorney.”

 

Ian grimaced at his parents, who stood as a unit before him. “I know.”

 

“We’ll pay for it,” Jenny volunteered before he could even ask.

 

“Oh god, that helps a lot,” he said, smiling with relief. “You don’t know how much.” His hand pressed into Digger’s back.

 

Jenny and Ian smiled back at him. “I told ye we’d help,” Jenny said. “Ye think I’d lie to ye?”

 

His father cleared his throat beside her. “We’ll get going, leave ye two to settle in for the evening.” He placed a hand on his wife’s elbow and began to push her towards the door. “We can talk details later, aye?”

 

“Yes-- just let me grab my purse and get a kiss from my boys.”

 

She smelled of basil and sausage as she embraced Ian, all warmth and a mother’s softness. He leaned into it, borrowing her strength for as long as she would let him. She was short but sturdy. Solid. When she let go, she patted his shoulders and looked up at him. “Things will be alright,” she said. “No matter what. We’ll be here.”

 

With his parents seen off, Ian swept Digger into his arms, laughing and airplaning him into the living room in a fit of giggles that landed both of them on the couch with a thud. The feeling of being in his home, with just Digger, left him feeling lighter. A bit dizzy. Rollo fell into place beside them at Ian’s knee.

 

“Movie night,” Ian announced, poking his son’s belly. “What do ye want to watch?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for reading! I love to hear what you guys are thinking... poor Ian has so much to deal with, and I love the dynamic between Ian and Emily here, this chapter was so much fun to write! What do you think? 
> 
> Also Jenny/Ian are my OTP so I had to write them into the fic, expect to see a bit more of them. I love them older and as grandparents, and TOGETHER in Young Ian's adult life #teamIanNeverDied (kidding, that's my favorite part in the whole series and I wouldn't change it for all the world).
> 
> Digger is gone next weekend, so Rachel is back next chapter! Happy fanficking! See you in the comments section! <3 Thank you for being you!


End file.
